


Meet me in the valley

by nutriscii



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Dysfunctional Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Lucas, Smoking, Social Media, Strangers to Lovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 67,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25918492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutriscii/pseuds/nutriscii
Summary: When Eliott, Parisian born and bred, tried to convince his friends to work in a vineyard for a few weeks to make some money, he wasn't expecting them to accept. Worse, he wasn't expecting it to be so hard.For Lucas, it's the contrary. When he was forced to shorten his vacation to spend some time on the family domaine, he was already expecting it to suck big time. The fact that he's got to deal with a dysfunctional family and his asshole cousin on top of things — well, it's just the icing on the cake, really.OR. Strangers-to-Lovers AU
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 55
Kudos: 167





	1. Week I, Eliott

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone 💖 i'm really, super excited about this new story and i hope you'll enjoy it as much as i did while writing it 🙏🏻 i've got a talent to write about things i know nothing about (you'll hear it from my browser history first the day it changes) so all mistakes are mine and i apologize in advance. 
> 
> as usual, the biggest shoutout to the best beta-reader in the world 💟💟

**SAMEDI, 13:51**

“Well damn,” Idriss whistles, just as the car moves past the large gate marking the entrance of the property. “That looks big.”

Eliott leans forward between the front seats, nudging his seatbelt down to curiously peer through the windshield above Sofiane’s shoulder. The dirt track they are on is dry enough to leave a dust cloud in their wake, making the rest of the valley disappear as they progressively make their way past a series of massive outbuildings made of white stone.

“What were you expecting? They’re making wine,” Sofiane observes, ever so insightful, “not weed in a basement in the 10e.”

Idriss takes his eyes off the road to give him a look, just as they near a large three-story farmhouse. Placed here, in the middle of the property, all pristine white walls and surrounded by trees and tender green blanket of grass, it looks like a shiny ring sitting on its silky emerald cushion.

“You do remember I voted to drop you off in Tours, right?”, Idriss bites back, pulling the car to a stop about a hundred meters away from the front of the farmhouse.

“Do we really have to talk about that again?”, Eliott asks tiredly.

Sofiane flicks his tongue, ignoring him. “Was it before or _after_ you turned around for the third time because you didn’t want to follow my indications?”

Eliott lets out a groan of protest, slumping back against the backseat.

If he ever thought that getting away from his parents to hit the road with his two best friends for a six-hour drive would be a lot of fun and a brand new experience, he got greatly mistaken; the trip to Saint Aignan ended up looking a _lot_ like traveling with his parents — not to mention that most of the playlist he had so carefully crafted went to waste, because Idriss is one of those people who turn down the music whenever he gets focused on something.

(Okay fine, he’s the only one out of the three who doesn’t have a driver’s license.)

(Maybe, _maybe_ , he’s not exactly in the right spot to have an opinion on the matter, _fine_.)

(But still.)

“The GPS told me to follow the A10,” Idriss retorts snappily, killing the engine, “so I followed the A10.”

Oh God. He can feel the headache coming back.

Now would be as good a time as any to find a distraction — except that there seems to be absolutely none. The property is weirdly quiet, as it turns out, and there isn’t a living soul in sight. He’s checked a thousand times to make sure they were well and truly expected to arrive today, with them having to sleep somewhere and all, but as far as he’s concerned there isn’t such thing as a welcome committee right now.

“Let’s see what it’s all about,” Sofiane says with an eyeroll, his seatbelt clinking against the passenger’s door as he slips out of the car.

Idriss and Eliott follow him outside, the afternoon sun bright and burning on his sweat-damp skin. His back hurts like hell and his legs are stiff as fuck from being trapped in the cramped space between the backseat and Sofiane’s seat; he takes a few wobbly steps away from the car, stretching his limbs, while Idriss systematically makes his joints crack one after the other. 

He throws a quick glance at the farmhouse. “Bro that’s truly one hell of a house.”

“Imagine living in a place like this,” Sofiane adds, shoving his hands into his pockets, eyes squinting a little at the sun reverberating on the white façade.

Idriss lets out a sigh, dramatically shoving his snapback on his head. “There’s no concrete, I feel my life expectancy shrinking.”

Eliott huffs a snort.

He knew this would be quite the experience, and that it’s a far cry from Paris, but they aren’t lost in the Tanzanian desert, last he checked. They just have to settle, and things will start to make more sense. If five years of friendship with Idriss have taught him one thing, it’s that he can be difficult when he wants to be but deep down he just needs to have a bed and that’s pretty much it — he can make do with the rest of the world, starting from there.

“What are you doing here?”, a voice calls out behind them, making them startle.

Their heads snap to the side in unison, only to see a man stepping outside from one of the outbuildings through a sliding door. Tall, probably not quite thirty, that’s pretty much all Eliott can see from there. The kind of guy who wears a button-down in the middle of summer, that’s for sure.

“It’s a private property, didn’t you see the sign on the gate?”, he adds sharply, striding outside.

“We- uh,” Eliott starts, stuttering a little as he tries clearing his throat, “I mean yes but-”

“Didn’t you see _the gate_ then? Isn’t it big enough?”

Damn. So much for making a good first impression.

He cringes inwardly, Imane’s words coming back to bite him in the ass. “Idriss, I’m not kidding,” she had said, always with her big-sister voice, when they were right about to leave Paris. “Actually, no, all three of you. I’m very, very serious about this. I have a reputation to keep and I put a good word for you to Mom and Dad, so you better behave or else I’m gonna break your shins. Got it?”

It’s been mildly scary at the moment. Seven hours later it still is — more than a little bit.

“We’re here to work,” Sofiane says. “We just got here.”

The man doesn’t even bat an eye. “Well the personnel entrance is the other way. Someone must have told y-”

“Charles, come on,” another voice calls out from inside, cutting him off, and Eliott’s eyes darts onto a woman crossing the threshold of the sliding door.

She’s definitely older, probably above forty, maybe forty-five; she has short blond hair and clear eyes, and she’s wearing the kind of high-waisted, snowy-white pantsuits that Eliott’s snobbish godmother wears whenever she bothers to leave the confines of her 5-bedroom apartment in the 16e.

“The GPS always takes them here, it happens every year,” she adds, not leaving the entrance of what looks like a study, now that Eliott pays attention. He can see potted plants and a large work table peeking out through the sliding door.

Charles’ eyes twitches, like he’s making a supreme effort not to roll them, and he starts retreating back to the study like a dog whose leash has been tugged at.

“Yeah, that’s what happened,” Idriss shrugs, not one to be deterred. “Where are we supposed to go now?”

“You just have to follow that trail,” the woman says, pointing at a dirt track snaking its way between trees and shrubs and bushes. “It will take you to the other side of the property. I’ll send someone to show you around in a bit and give you the keys.”

“Right, thank you, we’re gonna do just that,” Sofiane says, with this infuriating well-behaved-kid tone he always uses around people older than them. He turns back to the car, discreetly pushing Idriss, and Eliott finds himself following his cue.

“Bro, what are those people on for real,” Idriss mutters under his breath, sliding back behind the steering wheel. He puts the car in motion, pointedly following the indications given by the woman.

Eliott makes a point not to squirm and turn on his seat, and he simply glances up to see her growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. The car slowly makes its way among trees, tops merging together forming a natural canopy.

“ _I’ll send someone_ ’, like _dude_ , this isn’t some Louis XIV bullshit or whatever. Who talks like that?”

“The boss,” Sofiane replies, nose in his phone.

Idriss frowns suspiciously. “What?”

Eliott peers above Sofiane’s shoulder. “Remember the person we sent our resume to?”, his friend says, turning a google search result page for Eliott to see, then Idriss. He has entered the name _Isabelle Lallemant_ and the first result is a direct link to a website entry about the domaine.

 _Château Saint-Aignan_ , Eliott reads. He briefly sees the words _Bordeaux Rouge_ and _Haut-Médoc,_ alongside a string of acronyms he doesn’t have the smallest clue about, before Sofiane scrolls a little further down.

“Oh, so she’s really the boss,” Idriss says, one hand moving onto the gear shift.

Sofiane doesn’t look up. “Honestly with the way Imane spends her time bossing you around, it shouldn’t be so different.”

The only response he gets is Idriss’ middle finger.

**SAMEDI, 14:13**

**SAMEDI, 23:38**

The chilly night air coming from the Garonne river hits Eliott in the face as he bursts outside, lungs burning and heart thrumming in his chest, twisting around left and right to sidestep strangers crowding the side-entrance of the club. It’s an exercise that requires a little bit of coordination and a lot of sobriety, and in this moment, he allows himself a pat behind the head for managing to stick to his one-beer rule. Behind him, the door slips shut with a metallic sound, but the heavy bass of the music is still pounding into his ears, strobing lights still sparkling in his eyes, as he takes a few steps to the side.

Honestly? Coming here tonight was the fucking best decision they’ve taken ever since they left Paris. ~~~~

“You’ve got a last free day, you kids should get some fun before tomorrow,” the manager (sorry, the _chef de culture_ ) had said, when he had handed them the keys to the cabin all three of them shared. He added something along the lines of ‘but don’t forget to turn in early’ but Eliott conveniently chose to forego that part.

They’ve got it all under control anyway, and if history taught him one thing it’s that it’s near-impossible to keep Sofiane away from a dancefloor. It’s Eliott’s duty as a _friend_ to accompany him.

A small shiver runs up his back as he starts searching his pockets, but it’s a nice kind of shiver. He lost the boys somewhere in the crowd a few moments ago, but there’s not a worry a text can’t undo — and he can really use a whiff of fresh air and some nicotine, before getting back in there. He leans his back against a metallic barrier and exhumes a tobacco packet from his back pocket, absent-mindedly busying himself with the all-so-familiar process of rolling himself his fourth cigarette of the day.

The sidewalk is a happy crowd of tipsy people in their twenties, loud laughter and even louder conversations, happy squeals echoing from one group to the next below the surface of a large cloud of smoke swirling in the air. By the time he brings up the cigarette to his lips, the incessant come and go has brought a few new faces outside, and the sound of a lighter being stubbornly difficult reaches his ears past the enthusiastic chatter.

He glances to the side, eyes trailing curiously along the sidewalk. A couple of meters away, a guy is busy trying to light up his own cigarette, making his lighter flicker a couple of times in frustration. He’s standing just where a group of girls was only a moment ago, right below an icy-blue LED pointing at the door, and Eliott doesn’t quite realize he’s staring until the guy looks up and makes eye-contact.

“Hey. You got a lighter I can borrow?”, he asks, waving his own with a reprobating twist of his lips.

It startles Eliott a little, and he nearly wants to slap himself. _Jeez_. “Yeah, sure.”

The guy steps closer as Eliott retrieves his Zippo from his pocket and hands it to him. “Old school, uh?” he says with a small smirk as he picks it up, examining the metallic case, and Eliott realizes it’s actually a joint that’s tucked at the corner of his mouth. “I like it.”

It shouldn’t make Eliott swoon. Absolutely not. Let alone threaten to make his knees go weak.

But the guy-

Okay, the guy is hot. Really hot. Probably a bit older. All sharp jawline and pointy cheekbones, and once the deep frown on his forehead is gone… Well it’s a nice face right there, to put it mildly. Really, really nice. And a really nice voice too.

 _Fuck, that voice_.

He’s far too busy trying not to go all middle-schooler crush on a guy he’s known for fifteen seconds tops to notice that said guy has gotten a bit closer. Not in a creepy way, mostly in a _let’s have a chat_ way. Either the guy knows that whatever number he’s doing is working on him, or Eliott is really good at putting up a front — this is the part where you’re allowed to laugh. Either way, he doesn’t really seem bothered by Eliott’s lack of reaction, playfully making the Zippo flip in his hand appreciatively before flicking it open. Eliott’s eyes follow the movements, trailing up his hands, fixated on the way his fingers move when he finally lights up his joint.

It’s a lot to process. Really. And when the guy hands his lighter back to him, Eliott mechanically holds out his hand, and call him weak or stupid or both, but it feels like the guy’s hand lingers unusually long against Eliott’s palm. His eyes snap up, only to find a blazing blue gaze staring straight into his soul.

 _God_. _Get a fucking grip,_ he admonishes himself. The guy is obviously a player. Yes. That. A player. Or at least he’s either high or inebriated enough to hit on a random stranger. Yes.

That.

The moment dissipates as Eliott pulls his hand away — not too harshly, he hopes for some reason. He clears his throat a little, flipping the cap of the Zippo open once more to light up the cigarette still waiting between his lips, and he takes a deep inhale to calm his messed-up heartbeat a little.

The guy seems perfectly chill as he takes a hit from his joint, letting out some smoke through his nose. He nonchalantly rests an elbow on the metallic barrier. Before Eliott knows it his eyes are back on him. “Want a drag?”, he asks conversationally, pulling the joint away from his lips and into Eliott’s direction.

It shouldn’t, _shouldn’t_ make Eliott feel things. Absolutely _not_. And yet. The few second long break he’s just managed to get from his first nicotine fix is long gone and forgotten now. All he’s left to do is now staring a little too long, a newfound excitement sparking up in his veins.

 _Does this kind of stuff take you far usually?_ , Eliott nearly asks.

But he can’t. Because fuck it’s working.

“Just one,” Eliott hears himself saying, pulling his cigarette away.

It’s absolutely out of the question to get high tonight, but he can deal with just one hit. A tiny one.

The guy cocks an eyebrow, drawing the joint away. “Let me guess, you’re the good kid,” he says with a smirk, and fuck it makes a dimple pop on his cheek.

Eliott snorts. “Someone’s gotta be.” _As if_. His parents would probably beg to disagree.

“I respect that,” the guy laughs, handing him back the joint.

It sounds like Eliott has just scored a point, and he has no idea why it feels so good. So exhilarating. Eliott’s body motions before he’s even thought it through. Instead of picking up the joint, he takes the guy’s hand, angling his wrist so he can take a hit, and when he looks up to meet his eyes, they seem even darker than before.

The inhale makes Eliott’s chest burn, but his cheeks have long heated up on their own without any kind of help. He pulls away, letting go of the guy’s wrist as nonchalantly as possible, and exhales the smoke in the dark.

“That’s just too bad, you know,” the guy says after a moment, and it takes Eliott a good few seconds to remember they’ve started a conversation at all. It’s like all his brain is able to process is the guy standing next to him, and his ridiculously handsome face, and his hands, and his smile. “Good kids don’t do stupid things, right?”

 _Well, I just did_.

“Depends,” Eliott says, trying to sound confident as he mirrors the guy’s position, one elbow resting on the barrier. His fingers fiddle a little around his cigarette, and he brings it up to his lips to busy himself. “What kind of stupid things are you thinking about?”, he asks, cocking an eyebrow, before blowing out some smoke.

The guy gives him a cheeky eyebrow raise that makes Eliott’s stomach do a backflip.

 _Fucking shit_. There’s this devouring part of him that’s just desperately wanting to drag him back inside the club, just to have a good excuse to press himself against him on the dancefloor. Be blissfully unabashed as they would be two out of dozens and dozens of people swaying in semi-rhythm. He wants that — a good excuse to wrap himself around him.

Their eyes lock between two exhales of smoke, one legal, the other not so much, and then-

Then the guy’s mouth is on his own. And he’d be damned if he said it doesn’t feel as good as the thought of it did. It’s enthusiastic but not overbearingly so. Hot but not sloppy. Eliott’s hand cups his jawline and draws him even closer, mouths moving together, and something wild and demanding keeps expanding in his chest. A faint scrap of teeth tugging at his bottom lip and Eliott opens his mouth without much of a second thought. The guy slides his tongue inside, deepening the kiss, snaking an arm around Eliott’s waist and-

Eliott’s phone starts vibrating in his jeans’ pocket, and he lets out a quiet groan as they break apart. He really doesn’t want reality to come back crashing just yet. In that moment they’re in Paris and nothing is expected from him. In that moment the streets look familiar and his bed isn’t so far — except that it’s not Paris. It’s Bordeaux, and he’s almost 600km away from home.

Worse. He’s not on fucking vacation.

He pulls his phone out from his back pocket and begrudgingly takes a look at the caller ID. _Idriss._ They’re probably looking for him. “My friends are calling,” he mutters, feeling like he needs to justify himself for letting the world interrupt whatever nice, _very nice_ thing they’ve got going on.

He must be looking like a wreck because the guy chuckles, his mouth stretching out into a lazy smile. He gives him a playful pat on the cheek. “Maybe you should pick up,” he says, sounding unbothered.

It makes Eliott feel a tad annoyed. Mostly at himself.

He just made out with a guy he’s never seen before, in a club and a city he’s never been to. It doesn’t quite qualify as a reason to be possessive. He hums with a nod, ending the call to fire a text instead. The guy swiftly slips away, putting out the fire of his unfinished joint, then tucking it back into his pocket.

“Thanks for the lighter,” he smiles with a small wink. And with that he walks over to the metallic door and steps back inside the club, without a glance back.

 _Fucking player_ , Eliott groans to himself, slumping back against the barrier.

**DIMANCHE, 06:01**

He’s not quite sure what wakes him up first.

The alarm echoing in the silent cabin, or Idriss’ groans. And Sofiane’s. A concert of those quickly fill up the room, followed by the rustle of comforters and bed springs squeaking inside thin mattresses. Eliott rolls onto his back with a humf, throwing an arm over his face as Sofiane shuts down the morning alarm. Those moments where you are absolutely sure that you’ve been sleeping for just _five minutes_ , and not five hours? Well that’s how he feels in that moment. He’s practically sure his head hit the pillow only a moment ago — but the small window of their cabin doesn’t look like it’s willing to play pretend. The view, darkened by the trees surrounding that part of the property, was a strange mix of cold blue and purple.

“I’m never, ever listening to you ever again man,” Idriss groans from across the room.

“You wanted to go out too,” Sofiane counters, voice muffled as he drops himself back onto his bed.

Eliott snorts into his elbow.

“Whatever. It’s all Eliott’s fault anyway.”

“We all signed up for this. Literally,” Eliott points out, tongue thick with sleep.

_Think about the money._

It was the first thing that had motivated him about coming all the way here in the middle of their summer vacations — that and the prospect of having some time away from his parents. They had been on his case for a whole year now, what’s with him having to repeat his Terminal year and stuff, and if he had to go on vacations with them on top of things, he wasn’t sure they would’ve all made it back home alive.

“Well maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult if we hadn’t spent thirty minutes looking out for you after you disappeared last night,” Idriss scoffs, making the bed squeak as he sits up in his bed.

Funny how last night, in the car on the way home, Idriss was complaining about twenty minutes. And before that, fifteen minutes. Obviously the ten extra minutes it took them to get out of the club is the problem, and not the six-hour drive they pulled before that.

Eliott drops his arm and shuffles into his bed. “Now you’re exaggerating,” he yawns. “‘Time is it?”

“Dunno. Time to get up.”

“Dibs on the shower,” Sofiane exclaims, bolting out of his bed like a kid on Christmas morning.

It makes Eliott huff and Idriss groan some more. There’s only one shower in the tiny-sized bathroom of their cabin, but at least it’s theirs — which is more than what he had prepared himself for. He’s been half expecting a common shower for the on-site workers, camping like, and he wasn’t sure Idriss wouldn’t have bolted out, if it had been.

He braces himself in his bed, wrapping himself in his comforter as he starts rummaging through the pile of clothes from yesterday. After a minute of battle with his skinny jeans, he exhumes his tobacco packet and his Zippo and starts busying himself in the dimly-lit cabin. He’s got a feeling that he won’t get much time to smoke for the next couple of hours, so now’s as good a time as any. He drags himself out of bed and pads to the door, still clad in his comforter as he walks past an Idriss-shaped pile of blankets.

The chilly morning air makes goosebumps rise across his skin as he steps outside, a much-welcome whiff of fresh air before summer takes over, and he brings his cigarette to his lips to light it up. After the first exhale he stares down pensively at his Zippo, thumb thoughtfully running across the metallic case, and he quietly snorts to himself. It’s really his fucking thing, uh. Get all star-eyed for the first person that comes around. It’s not his fault if he doesn’t do well with the no-strings-attached kind of thing — at least the boys didn’t see him with the guy from the club, otherwise he would never hear the end of it.

It takes Sofiane a few more minutes to get out of the shower, leaving Eliott enough time to finish his cigarette and even to absently watch the sky change colors. He gracefully leaves Idriss the second turn in the bathroom and goes back to bed, forcing himself to sit instead of laying down as he fires a quick text to his mom that will, hopefully, take her off his back for the next 72h to come. By the time it’s his turn and he makes it out of the bathroom, it’s nearing 6h40 and they have to practically run to grab breakfast.

Meals are served in a large room, in yet another side-building, and with its dark, stone-covered walls and wood joist ceiling, it makes Eliott think of a converted cellar of sorts. The domaine itself is big, and not just, house-with-a-garden big, but more like, a couple-of-hectare big, and he’s positive he has yet to see the bigger part of it.

The _chef de culture_ , who briefly introduced himself as Michel Savary when handing them the key yesterday, is already sitting at the breakfast table, surrounded by a couple more on-site workers. The man is a sympathetic-looking man in his sixties probably, practically bald as an egg under his old flat cap.

“Good morning everyone,” he greets, booming voice bouncing back against the walls and the low ceiling. “Everyone grab a cup of coffee and something to eat, you’re gonna need a full stomach to make it through the first day.”

“I already hate this,” Idriss grumbles under his breath, as he takes a seat between a bright red-fleece-sweater-wearing lady and Sofiane on the bench. “It’s never a good sign.”

Eliott settles on Sofiane’s other side and grabs a mug at the center of the table that he fills with coffee. “You knew it wasn’t gonna be Club Med and _farniente_.”

“It’s 6h45. I don’t know shit at this hour.”

He shares an unimpressed look with Sofiane, who imitates him and diplomatically nudges a coffee-filled mug in Idriss’ direction.

“First harvest?”, the man sitting next to Eliott asks sympathetically. He has a thick accent that made him think of central Europe.

“Yeah. You too?”

“Oh, no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m a veteran. My wife and I, we’ve come here at least once every two years for almost ten years now. The region is absolutely wonderful, we always spend the fourth week of our stay touring around.”

Okay, so clearly, they don’t have the same idea of relaxing and exciting vacations abroad, Eliott almost says, but he keeps his mouth shut and politely hums in response before taking a sip of coffee. _Ugh_. It’s black and strong, and it gives him a full-body shudder before he can even swallow it down. He immediately leans forward to grab some sugar in the metallic box sitting at the center of the table. 

“You live far?”, the man asks conversationally.

Eliott shoves a handful of sugar cubes in his mug. “We’re from Paris actually.”

The room gets nearly instantly quiet, and Eliott looks up to face a whole bunch of people (alright, maybe ten, eleven tops) staring at them, including Mr. Savary. “No way,” he drawls. “ _Parisians_.”

It’s not outwardly insulting but it sounds fairly close — not to mention that a good 50% of the faces is a mix between mocking and disdainful. Idriss squints his eyes as he looks up from his coffee. “What does that mean?”

At the end of the table, Mr. Savary reclines into his seat, with a casual wave of the hand. “Ah. Don’t take it the wrong way kids, it’s just that we don’t have a lot of those around there.”

The man sitting next to him snorts in his coffee. “At least rarely to do something with their hands,” he puts his cup down. “They aren’t exactly the toughest crowd, if you know what I mean.”

Eliott is about to ask whether or not anyone has paid attention to the resumes they sent, but before he can do so, Mr. Savary offers a small shrug. “But eh, the good news is, maybe you’ll end up liking it here. It’s a difficult job but one time can be enough, you know.”

The girl sitting across from Eliott leans forward a little in his direction, as Mr. Savary moves onto a different topic with the man next to him.

“Don’t worry, he does that every year,” she says with a little snort. “It’s his big opening number. I’m Emma.”

She seems to be around their age, which made her the fourth youngest of the group, Eliott could only assume. “I’m Eliott,” he nods, picking up a spoon to stir a bit of all that sugar sitting at the bottom of his mug. “What happens with non-Parisian people, usually?”

She starts laughing. “Dude, you can be Alsatian born and bred, you’ll take a bullet too. For a Parisian it was frankly not that bad actually, trust me.”

 _Well that’s reassuring._ “How many years around here?” He’s starting to wrap his head around the idea that it’s most certainly the top-defining thing there’s to know about people in this field, might as well try blending in.

_When in Rome._

She counts on her fingers. “My fifth one I think? Yeah. That. Last week I was still working as a summer extra on the Coast and in three weeks I’ll just head North to help over pick up some veggies on a friend’s market garden.”

Eliott cocks an eyebrow. “So that’s your job? Professional seasonal worker?”

She doesn’t seem to take it the wrong way, which wasn’t the idea anyway. “I kinda like that,” she says, reaching across the table to pick another piece of bread and the butter. “It makes you meet new people and try out new things all the time. It’s never boring.”

“Gonna have to take your word on that, then,” he huffs.

**DIMANCHE, 14:08**

Seven hours.

 _Seven hours_. He just spent seven hours, lost in the countryside, trampling on the spot, picking up grapes under the burning bright sun of a late August canicule taste. After breakfast they were transported to the vineyards, a couple of kilometers away from the domaine, where their misery began at around 7h. Which isn’t human on a Sunday morning, Eliott can give Idriss that, but like Mr. Savary likes to repeat, _grapes don’t wait_.

At this point he thinks he should print it on a shirt for him. He has a feeling that it’s something he repeats quite a lot, judging by the number of times he’s seen Emma roll her eyes in her corner.

When the clock hits 14h00, and that everyone hops in the cars to get back to the domaine, he can barely move his arms, and standing straight provokes a constant conflict of interest between his spine and his vertebras. Not to mention that he has now a nasty cut on his hand, between his index finger and his thumb, where Sofiane’s secators inadvertently drifted away in the wrong direction, and a few blisters to keep it company.

If he has to keep it short and simple, he’d say that it’s been by far the most exhausting day of his life.

Neither Idriss or Sofiane seem about to disagree.

“I don’t think I can even take a shower at the moment,” Sofiane groans, slumping back against the car seat. They’re riding with Emma, who generously offered considering they can’t determine half the time if the names they hear all day long are people or places.

“I don’t think I can even carry a bottle of water at this point,” Idriss adds.

Eliott, for his part, doesn’t think he has the energy to talk — so he doesn’t.

Picking up the grapes, or whatever that’s called, isn’t even the hardest part in the end. Having to do it while paying scrupulous attention to the person across from you (in his case, Sofiane) definitely _is_ , and his hand can already speak about the dangers of a split-second of inattention. When they get back to the domaine, they barely give their sandwiches a few bites, too beaten up to even care about the few smirks their current energy level brings up around the table.

“Don’t worry, the first day’s always the hardest,” Mr. Savary says, always so full of wisdom, as he gives Idriss a slap in the back.

They don’t even have the strength to play pretend — or for Idriss to make a grumpy comment. When everyone disperses after their late meal to go home and leave way to the afternoon pickers team, they wobble their way to their cabin and drop themselves onto the first bed after the door.

“How much do we get for this again?”, Idriss grumbles, eyes shut even with his back resting straight against the wall.

Eliott shuffles, twisting his waist at a weird angle while his legs are pinned down to the mattress by Sofiane’s weight. “I don’t remember,” he mutters. “Something like 60 a day.”

“60 a day doesn’t seem worth it.”

“Then do the math for a whole week.”

“I’m too tired for that.”

Eliott doesn’t really know when his eyes have slipped shut but in any case, they did. “Sof, you good with math right?”, he mumbles tiredly, praying one eye open after a long silence. Sofiane is staring in the distance and Eliott gave him a small nudge in the shoulder.

“I’m too dead to care,” he replies, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “Could you both get off my bed now? Otherwise I’m laying down on you.”

Idriss lets out a groan, but eventually pushes Sofiane’s legs away from his lap to roll off his bed. It takes Sofiane giving him a sharp kick of the elbow in the ribs — he’s _sure_ it was intentional — for Eliott to brace himself to do the same. His bed welcomes him with the springs creaking loudly, and he barely refrains a whine of despair at the thought of his comfortable bed waiting for him in Paris.

He needs the money. Yes. That.

No matter how prosaic that sounds, he needs it. Otherwise he can already say goodbye to his movie project. He spends a few more minutes staring up at the ceiling, following the trail of a spider web in a corner of the room. His movie script is in the backpack he’s brought along, waiting for him to give it attention. With the rush of packing and planning stuff, it’s been over a week since he even sat down to open it, and he can only hope that the bone-crushing fatigue he’s feeling at the moment isn’t going to last for the next three weeks.

(After all, as Idriss is so kindly putting it, it’s his fault they are here.)

(Not that he heard anyone complain at the thought of making some money for uni.)

After a while Eliott rolls off his bed, dragging himself outside to light up a cigarette. He just can’t nap. That’s not a thing for him. It just doesn’t work, and if he does, he feels sick for the rest of the afternoon. Still a bit unsteady on his two legs, he takes a few steps away from the cabin, following the dirt track that leads to the farmhouse until he reaches the part he’s starting to like most — the moment where the trees lined up on either sides of the trail are making a vegetal roof high above his head.

He’s pensively staring up, nose in the air, when a dog barking in the distance makes him startle. 

“Oh, hey there,” he says, breaking into a smile as his eyes stumble on a Jack Russell Terrier running his way, brown floppy ears bouncing up and down. It settles at Eliott’s feet, excitedly sitting on its butt and staring expectantly at him. “What are you up to, uh?”

He crouches down to give it a pat, fatigue momentarily forgotten as the dog jumps a handful of times before Eliott’s hand can even reach its head.

“Champagne,” a voice calls out from afar, sharp and decided. The dog’s head snaps to the side, pretty much like Eliott’s does. “Champ!”

That’s when he sees him.

A guy, about a couple of meters away, standing in front of the farmhouse. White tee-shirt, dark shorts, sunglasses. Nothing out of the ordinary, technically. Except that he’s got a cigarette tucked at the corner of his mouth, and the moment he reaches to pick it up-

It clicks.

Okay. Yeah. No. It’s his guy. Definitely.

Well. More like-

The guy from the club. Yes. Exactly.

There’s a stunned silence for a moment, only disturbed by Champagne running back to its owner and flinging itself in the guy’s legs. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he huffs after a short, slightly awkward silence. “Are you following me?”

With the hand holding his cigarette he vaguely gestures at the scenery around them, before pushing his sunglasses up his forehead and brushing his hair back.

Dammit, _those eyes_.

Even all squinty and from afar, they look so damn fucking good.

Eliott swallows, hoping to strike casual as he stands back up and slowly starts moving towards him. Champagne’s head swivels back to him, and it starts waggling its tail with an excited yap. “I work here,” he says, leaning down to scrap its head after the dog’s third attempt at catching his attention.

The guy lets out a snort, tugging some more at his cigarette. “Nah, you don’t.” Eliott looks up, cocking an eyebrow, and he seems to deflate a little, eyes narrowing a little. “For real?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Seasonal worker. I’m here to pick up the grapes.”

“Harvest,” the guy corrects, and it rolls off his tongue like some kind of automatism. “That’s called harvesting.”

Fuck he looks good, Eliott thinks helplessly, and he tries to focus on the dog instead. _He looks so fucking good_. Almost good enough to make Eliott’s mind go blank. Definitely good enough to accept a teaching lesson from him. _Any_ teaching lesson, really.

_Get a fucking grip._

“What are _you_ here for?”, he asks after an embarrassingly long silence.

 _Name. First name, last name, blood type, relationship status_. At this point he’s this close to ask all of those, but he’s not sure it would come across as ‘normal’. Least of all casual. But boy those questions were on the tip of his tongue.

The guy seems to ponder his answer. “Family business,” he replies slowly, a bit evasively. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, then throws it on the ground and steps on it. “I guess it makes me your boss’ son.”

 _Oh_.

Now it made sense. Sort of. Either he’s the luckiest guy on Earth or there’s a catch. A country-sized catch.

“Yep,” _his boss’ son_ says, making the P pop at the end. He tilts his head a little to the side, pointing at Champagne. “She likes you.”

Eliott chuckles quietly. “I’m good with dogs. And kids. I don’t know why.”

Idriss often says that it’s because, like Labradors, he likes pretty much everybody, and like kids he has a head full of dreams and pretty colors — which is bullshit from start to finish, but after the fifteenth time he just started letting it slide.

“You been here for long?”

Well, clearly not long enough to know the appropriate vocabulary, he thinks dryly. It’s even a wonder that no one has popped out of a grape-filled vortex to swat him behind the head for his honest mistake. “That was my first day here, actually. We’ve arrived from Paris yesterday.”

The guy makes a face, which strangely enough looks familiar. The cocked eyebrow, the twist of the lips, the underlaying bit of sarcasm — he’s had a full table of those a couple of hours ago at breakfast. _The_ _Paris face_. And just as he’s already bracing himself for it, the guy smirks. “Paris, uh. Hope they weren’t too rough on you.”

Before he can answer, a big black Audi comes rounding the house, whirring loudly across the quiet property in a dust cloud, making Champagne bark obstinately. The vehicle stops abruptly as it nears them, the tinted window of the passenger seat rolling down.

Unsurprisingly enough it’s Charles who’s sitting behind the steering wheel. “You’re here early,” he says, voice loud above the sound of the engine, as he stares at the guy from the club. Greetings are apparently not part of the plan, just like acknowledging Eliott’s presence. “I thought you weren’t supposed to arrive before tomorrow.”

Eliott ducks his face a little, stealing a glance to the side. At least he doesn’t have to worry about making himself look as invisible as possible. His one-day-long crush gives a dry smile. “Yeah well, you’ll tell that to Mom. She’s the one who _so_ _kindly_ offered to shorten my vacation.”

Charles hums, already looking somewhere else like he really can’t be bothered to care. “Right,” he says briskly. “Sorry, I gotta go. I’ve got a meeting planned in Mérignac.” And before he’s even pulled the passenger window back up, he slams his foot on the clutch pedal. The motor roars loudly and in a blink of an eye the Audi is gone, only leaving yet another dust cloud in its wake.

 _What a fucking jerk,_ is the first thing that comes to Eliott’s mind, and he shields his eyes from the dust. The guy from the club follows the vehicle with his eyes, drilling holes into the license plate until it disappears behind the gate. Champagne sits between them, at the guy’s feet, and after a moment Eliott clears his throat.

“Sibling problems?”, he enquires, and he immediately wants to take the words back and shove them down his own throat. Why the fuck did he ask? It’s not even like he has any advice to give in the matter.

The guy’s head snaps to the side. “He’s not my brother,” he replies sharply, but then he catches himself and gives a vague shrug. “We’re just cousins. But people often make that mistake. Your boss, mostly.”

Despite his obvious attempt at looking casual, there’s a bitter edge to his tone that screams a thousand unsaid things. Before Eliott can even think about offering another impressively flat piece of small talk, the guy reaches for his back pocket, pulling out his buzzing phone.

“News travel fast,” he grumbles under his breath, giving a quick look to the caller ID before picking up. “Yeah? Yes, Manon. Yes. I did.”

Now would be the right time to fuck off, Eliott guesses. It’s the guy’s house after all, he’s got no business lurking around. It’s not like they have much more to talk about anyway. _Oh hey I’m bored and you seem to have a thing for making out with random people, care to repeat?_

“I should go back,” he mutters, giving Champagne another scratch on the head.

The guy’s eyes are back on him, and he takes the phone away from his face, putting it against his shoulder. “Wait, what’s your name?”, he asks without even skipping a beat. The bluntness takes Eliott aback for a split second. “Not that I don’t like calling you Cute Face in my head but… you know.”

 _Cute Face_. What a fucker. Only players act like that, he groans to himself.

But _fuck_.

“Eliott,” he says, rising up. ”You?”

A smile blooms on the guy’s face — an honest to God grin. The same he gave him before they parted ways. And, yep. Still made his knees go weak. Nice to know.

“Lucas,” he says, voice smoother than it ever was since they started talking today. There’s a chirping sound coming from his phone and a slightly annoyed frown briefly crumples his face, as he presses his phone back to his ear. “Yes, Manon, yes. I’m here,” he sighs with an affected eyeroll.

Eliott takes it as his cue to leave, and with a small huff and a final wave, he walks away.

He’s so, so very fucked.

**DIMANCHE, 19:06**

**MARDI, 15:26**

“Is that me or do I sense some shit going down behind doors with the boss’ nephew and the rest of the world?”, Idriss asks nonchalantly, buckling up his seatbelt.

Out of them all Sofiane has always been the more perceptive one, but Eliott likes to think he’s not so bad at reading people and reading the room either; only Idriss can be clueless enough to miss a good portion of subtext. Unless, of course, something drastically obvious is happening right in front of his salad, like an hour ago. The morning team was coming back to the domaine for lunch, a concert of car doors slamming shut as they all climbed down, only for Charles to stride past the chatty crowd, phone glued to his ear, without so much as a glance back.

“No hello?”, Mr. Savary called out, barely teasing at all. It was the kind of joke that wasn’t really one, and the way Charles turned back made it plain he hadn’t missed the jab.

“Funny as always,” he had retorted. “Not everyone has an hour of their time to waste.”

And just like that he had walked away.

Eliott has witnessed a total of three conversations involving that guy, with three different people, and he has yet to see him act politely — let alone say hello to anyone. Nineteen years spent in Paris, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen someone of his kind, which speaks volumes. 

“Nah, you’re not wrong,” Emma says, flicking her tongue as she drove past the famous ‘personnel entrance’ Charles had so kindly pointed at the first day — a modest sized manual gate opening on a narrow country lane snaking around the domaine. “To be fair I don’t know much about it, it’s mostly coming from stuff I picked up on or stuff people told me. Word’s that he’s not a huge fan of workers flocking in every year, he’s been trying to push his aunt towards mechanization for a while. When I started off there was like twice as many people as there is this year, so I guess he’s getting there.”

“Aren’t you mad?” Eliott asks, crossing Emma’s look in the rearview mirror.

She shrugs, with that always so laid-back attitude.

They’ve been talking about getting some basic supplies from a grocery shop in Saint Aignan (Saint A, like everybody else affectionately calls it apparently), and she immediately jumped on board with it, saying she needed some for herself.

“I thought it was one of those fields that would always need people,” Sofiane says.

She laughs. “Yeah no. It’s a lot cheaper to deal with machines in the long run and they don’t have to deal with people in general, overall it’s a win-win situation for them. Especially when like Charles you’re allergic to people in general.” She shrugs again. “But eh, I wouldn’t say he’s a bad guy, he just has a stick up his ass the size of the Eiffel Tower.”

“Sounds about right,” Idriss snickers.

She widens her eyes comically in the rearview mirror, a large grin on her face. “Yeah? I thought so too.” Emma takes right at the first intersection. “Just stay out of his hair and things are gonna be fine.”

Eliott hums, mostly to himself, and let his eyes wander through the window. Unsurprisingly, his thoughts fly to Lucas, like they’ve been doing an ungodly amount of time in the past 24h alone — which is absolutely no one else’s business. He doesn’t pretend to know him nearly well enough to make correct assumptions about him, but he’s not entirely sure it’s in the guy’s very nature to stay out of someone’s hair. Least of all when it’s someone from his family — someone he doesn’t seem to have the greatest relationship with, if their interaction was any indication.

But again, Emma seems to think Charles has a problem with pretty much everyone, so maybe it’s not too far-fetched to think it’s just him being a dick to the rest of the world, and family (Lucas) is just no exception.

“Bro, that’s so sick,” Idriss says from the passenger’s seat, making Eliott’s attention drift back onto the road. “Eliott, you love that kind of shit, you big freak.”

Partially collapsed walls are peeking through a patch of trees lost in the middle of a field, sun reverberating on the white stone covered in moss and ivy, and Eliott straightens up a little on his seat as they drive past it, craning his neck to get a better look. “Oh yeah. That looks awesome.”

“It’s an abandoned church. Or cathedral, whatever,” Emma says. “There’s a ton of those around here, that and old as shit castles and stuff. My friends and I were partying in places like that all the time when we were in high school, it was fucking great. It’s the kind of things you guys don’t have in Paris.”

Eliott almost snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

Sure, they probably don’t have abandoned churches covered in trees right out of the ring-road, but in terms of freaky places there are enough spots to last Eliott a lifetime. His favorite place on Earth is a part of the abandoned railroad snaking its way around Paris, _La Petite Ceinture._ Kilometers and kilometers of rusty rails and tunnels sneaking under trees, _the dream_. He started going there when he was still in middle school, spending hours wandering by himself, and that’s where he had first thought out the movie project he was currently working on. In complete honesty it was one of the things that made him feel like he could never leave Paris behind and move away; he’d miss that part of the city too much, and it’s almost worth the life-long prospect of an overpriced rented flat.

“You know what,” Emma keeps on saying. “We should go to one of these places. I could bring you guys in one of them, we’d have so much fun.”

Sofiane nudges him enthusiastically from his elbow. “That’d be awesome, right?”

“Yeah, dunno,” Idriss says, slowly, carefully. “It’s gonna depend if we’re still alive by then I mean.”

Sofiane snickers. “He’s chicken,” he sums up dryly for Emma.

Idriss swivels onto his seat to glare at him. “I’m not _chicken_ ,” he snaps. “You motherfuckers lost me on fucking purpose and I _still_ haven’t forgiven you for that.”

Eliott starts laughing, soon followed by Sofiane.

Idriss has never been the boldest of them when it comes to abandoned places. Once the three of them were hanging out, they were maybe fourteen or fifteen, when they had come across a paper factory that had probably been shut down a few decades ago. Eliott had dashed in and Sofiane had followed; only Idriss had taken a moment too long to brace himself, which had ended up with him losing tracks of them for a while. Naturally Idriss had never wanted to believe they had _not_ lost him on purpose — but it was Sofiane’s fault, because that idiot had admitted they had watched him freak out for a minute or two from a corner before telling him they were there.

“Fine, I promise I’ll be nice,” Eliott drawls. “Sofiane too.”

Sofiane nods, mimicking pinky swear. Idriss rolls his eyes and slouches back into his seat, folding his arms unhappily on his chest with a humf and a few curses under his breath.

In the rearview mirror, Emma throws a quick glance at Eliott, mouthing the words ‘ _I don’t’_.

He has to bite down on his bottom lips not to snort.

**MARDI, 19:59**

**MERCREDI, 20:48**

“Mister Cute Face,” a voice drawls, and it makes Eliott startle a little, so much he practically bumps his knees under the table.

He’s sitting at the tiny terrace of a bar in Saint-A, and considering he knows less than ten people in this area of France, it’s safe to say he hasn’t exactly been expecting to stumble on anyone by wandering out of the domaine. At some point during the night, he was hit by a very stimulating wave of inspiration that successfully kept him alive and awake, albeit day-dreamy, all through the day. For some reason, the fourth day is hitting them the hardest, and he can’t quite determine whether it’s because fatigue is starting to settle in or because it’s been one of the hottest days of his life so far. In any case he’s used Sofiane’s and Idriss’ bone-crushing need to just lay face down on their beds to go back to the small city on his own.

When he looks up, he finds Lucas standing there, an easy grin on his face as he rests his hands onto the backrest of the empty chair facing Eliott. It’s an internal struggle to decide what to stare at first. _Smile? Eyes? Arms? Hands?_ For a hot second it feels like his brain was a flipper ball. Why does he have to always look so _good_?

The most he has seen from him for the past three days was in passing, from afar, just a familiar silhouette going in and out of the farmhouse at various hours, and with various people. In one memorable occasion, just as he and the boys were headed to grab dinner with the rest of the on-site workers, he saw him leaving the house with a really, _really_ pretty brunette practically hanging off his neck, and he’s not anywhere near ready to admit that it had him immediately checking Instagram for a valid answer.

Hear him out.

He didn’t want to do it, at first. He wanted to be better than this, to just convince himself that he had seen Lucas twice in his life and he _could live_ with not trying to find out about each and every detail he could gather about the guy — but turns out he couldn’t. In the end it was a false alarm, as far as he’s concerned.

The girl, Manon, is apparently a long-time friend, and on top of that Charles’ girlfriend.

(At least he got some… interesting pictures to stare at for entirely too long out of it.)

He reclines into his seat, pen slipping out from between his fingers as he tries to sound casual, and absolutely not like he’s been staring at half-naked pictures Lucas has posted in the last four years on his Instagram. “I’m sure you can do better than that,” he says, smiling back. Not gonna lie, he’s a bit amazed by his own bravery. A little. “We’ve exchanged names, last I recall.”

Not like he’s replayed every single second of their last (and officially _first_ ) meeting an inordinate amount of times in the past three days.

Lucas tilts his head to the side, pretending to give it a thought — at least he hopes he is just pretending. “True, true. It starts with an E, right? Eloi? Ernest?” He snaps his fingers, pointing at Eliott. “ _Etienne_.”

Eliott huffs a laugh, but deep down there’s an alarm blearing. There should be a rule against people like him. You can’t be beautiful, sexy, rich _and_ funny. It shouldn’t be a thing. It shouldn’t be _possible_. And yet. Here he fucking is. “Glad you remember. Following people around, Léon?”

Lucas laughs, giving a small shrug. “Just figured I could say hello. Unless your cute face has already stolen a few hearts and you’re waiting for someone.”

 _Jesus_. Like somehow he’s managed to find the time to meet someone else — or to even find someone that can compare, for that matter. Not that Lucas is asking him out. Or even thought about asking him out. Which is _absolutely_ not the question. He has a vague gesture of the hand. “Nah. My Ice-Tea and I have something special going on.”

Lucas hums in response. His eyes distractedly falling onto Eliott’s table, where the movie script is kept open by an orange highlighter. “What are you working on?”, he asks curiously, giving a small nod from his chin.

“A movie project. I’m hoping to get around shooting after getting back to Paris, the autumn weather would be perfect for that.” And now he’s rambling. Great.

Lucas smirks. “I’m impressed,” he whistles. “Most workers on the first week are way too tired to even think about anything else other than their next meal, and look at you! Who said Parisian people were lazy?”

Eliott huffs. “Everyone, I believe. Including you.”

“Nah, that’s not true.” Eliott gives him a look, but it only makes Lucas’ smile widen and Eliott’s stomach fall deeper and deeper. “I have a confession to make, actually. I’m Parisian too.”

“Really?”, Eliott lets out, taken aback.

Lucas nods, apparently very pleased with himself and his little surprise effect. Eliott can’t really care less — about the ‘ah ah I got you’ part, that is. The rest is… devastatingly interesting. Maybe meeting again in Paris wouldn’t be so far-fetched, after all.

“Yep,” Lucas says. “Originally, at least. I was born in Paris, but we moved over there when I was 13.”

 _Oh_. So much for them doing whatever they’re doing now in Paris once his job is done here. “Do you miss it? Paris, I mean,” Eliott asks thoughtfully, trying to hide the disappointment he doesn’t even have any business feeling in the first place.

Lucas ponders his answer, surprisingly serious as he keeps silent for a second. “Not often,” he says. He shrugs absently tracing the edge of the chair with his fingers. “Just every once in a while, I think about what it would have been if we had stayed there.”

Eliott busies himself with the straw in his drink, making the ice cubes tingle at the bottom of his glass. “How different are we talking?”

He looks up to find a smirk back up on Lucas’ ridiculously attractive lips. “Depends,” he snorts. “How much time do you have?”

“I’d say all night but I can’t vouch after 22h,” Eliott replies, hoping to sound more casual than needy as he gestures for Lucas to grab the empty chair. “Unless… I mean unless you were going somewhere else,” he adds quickly, seeing that Lucas hasn’t budged yet.

 _To a club, maybe._ Where he’s going to be making out with some other guy, in exchange of a borrowed lighter. After all Lucas is a player, that’s well-established. Right? He doesn’t even know anymore. Would a player be so… nice? He feels naïve and nauseous at the mere thought of this. God he was so fucking wrong. He _should_ have told the guys. Maybe they might have put the subtitles for him a little.

Lucas grabs the chair, eyes unwavering as he sits down. Almost like a challenge. Eliott’s heart starts drumming faster in his ribcage.

“I’ll tell you everything if you tell me about your movie,” Lucas says casually, tapping on the movie script as he speaks.

It doesn’t take long for Eliott to consider the offer, that’s for sure. “Deal.”

His hast is notified by a husky chuckle. “Alright,” he says, heaving a small sigh. “Let’s just say that the domaine’s always been more or less the problem. We left Paris because my grandfather got sick and he couldn’t handle everything by himself anymore.”

He distractedly picks up the pen Eliott was using before he showed up and starts fiddling with it, making it twist and turn between his fingers. That too, it should absolutely _not_ be this hot, especially not with Lucas talking about himself. After a few pen turns he looks back up with a small huff. “He was a jerk, you know. My grandfather. A real piece of work. Don’t miss him one bit.”

“That’s one less thing to be sad about,” Eliott offers.

Lucas snorts. “Exactly,” he says, before pointing at the script from the end of the pen. “So? That movie?”

 _Well that was fast_ , Eliott notes mentally. “It’s… hum. It’s a project I’ve had for a while. It’s about two characters who meet by an abandoned tunnel-”

“Is it set in Bois de Boulogne?”, Lucas cocks an eyebrow insolently, and there’s a sparkle of mischief dancing in his deep blue eyes.

Eliott stops dead in his tracks, blinking a few times. “Oh my God, _fuck you._ ”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lucas laughs. “Poor sense of humor. Tell me more, I’ll shut up.”

Eliott gives him a squinty look for good measure, but it only makes Lucas grin in response. Fuck, a player shouldn’t be so fucking _cute_. Really, if Lucas is only trying to play him, he really is dedicated to his craft. Nothing about this, about being here is uncharted territory for him, and there’s so much chase even a player can take before it gets boring, surely, _right_?

He tries to discard that particular thought, and clears his throat as he searches the right words to start. Hopefully some that won’t sound like a badly dubbed German tv movie playing on M6 in the middle of the afternoon, but also won’t make it sound like he’s planning on exploring the dark and dirty underground prostitution system.

“Okay so, I don’t know, but I’ve always liked the idea of darkness and light being tied to one another. Like, you know, they can’t exist without the other, we need both to balance it all.” He gives a small shrug, feeling self-conscious under Lucas’ unblinking eyes. “I don’t know, I wanted to create something that doesn’t just reflect the usual perception people have of light and dark.”

Lucas twists his mouth to the side. “That darkness is evil and light is the… how do they say, the ‘good way’?” It reeks of sarcasm. In that moment, Eliott isn’t sure Lucas can possibly be any hotter.

“Yeah, exactly,” he nods enthusiastically, and almost despite himself, he starts gesturing with his hands. “I mean, not everything dark is fundamentally evil, right? Take darkness in the non-Christian sense for instance. It can be a place for comfort and self-preservation. Of neutrality. Meanwhile stepping into the light can be the real fear, because it means being exposed, facing the world and facing your own fears.”

He’s not ready to meet Lucas’ gaze, not quite — it feels a little bit much for his brain at the moment. Clearing his throat, he averts his eyes instead. “I just… I don’t know, I liked the idea of creating two characters facing this. Like, facing their own fears, one of the dark and the other of the light, and ultimately realizing that… yeah. There’s more to darkness and light than what they thought.”

 _And now he thinks I’m a fucking nerd_. Great. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip through the straw, if only to get something to do as the silence seems to stretch out between them.

“What makes them see it?”, Lucas asks after a while. Eliott’s eyes snap up, and strangely enough Lucas doesn’t look bored. Serious, mostly. “That there’s more to it than what they thought?”

“Each other,” Eliott admits. “One’s too afraid of the light to step out of the tunnel they’ve taken shelter in. And the other…”

“… is too afraid of the dark to step in.”

“Yeah. They can be each other’s strength through it all.” There’s a short silence that prompts him to clear his throat. He reclines into his seat, trying to ignore the way his heart is thrumming steadily. “Anyway. Paycheck should cover the equipment at least. Hopefully.”

Lucas leans forward, almost as if he’s trying to make up for the distance Eliott subtly tried to put between them. It’s not that he doesn’t want him near, rather the opposite.

“I hope you’ll wear a tux on your way to Cannes,” Lucas says, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“Sure,” Eliott snorts. “I’ll send you a pic.”

“Meh, I’d rather get one without the tux.”

 _Holy fucking shit_. Eliott’s eyes move onto him so quickly that for a second he feels like a cartoon character. Lucas has the nerve to cock an eyebrow, as if his sole presence isn’t already about to mess with Eliott’s sleeping schedule for a week.

“I’m not sure snapping nudes of me and sending them to some guy is going to get me far in the industry.”

“Okay that’s fair. I’d hate for you to compromise your career for some… guy,” he replies casually, giving a small shrug, but he looks amused, just below the surface of his affected nonchalance. “How did you get here?”

Eliott blinks once, then points at a pedestrian sign a few meters away, where he attached the bike. “I borrowed a bike from one of the other workers.”

Lucas hums in response. “I was going home. Do you need a ride back?”

Foolishly enough, selfishly maybe even, Eliott says yes.

And not just because his dick does most of the thinking whenever he’s around Lucas these days — also because even though his body is slowly getting used to that amount of physical work, it’s not anywhere near a piece of cake to ride the 3km back home after three days in the vines.

Lucas’ car is a rutilant, iron-grey Jeep Wrangler, parked on the small parking-lot neighboring the church, and if Eliott didn’t know Lucas himself is driving it, he’s known for a few days now that there’s one on the domaine, coming and going occasionally. It’s big enough not to even have to wonder whether or not the bike will fit in the trunk, and when he climbs inside, Eliott’s weirdly overwhelmed by the smell of expensive leather.

“New toy?”, he asks when Lucas climbs in and buckles his seatbelt.

“Something like that.” He starts the car and backtracks out of the parking spot, before rounding the church and taking left. “No one really uses it when I’m not around, so.”

Eliott quirks a brow. “Don’t you live on the domaine?”

“Ah! Nope. London, baby,” Lucas replies easily, hands hovering around the steering wheel as he briefly stops at an intersection.

And it’s only now that it sinks in. The pictures on his Instagram. The British flag. It all starts to make sense, although he… kind of wish it didn’t. At first he just thought it was vacation-related, that Lucas just went there for a few weeks and all, but now… yeah. Now it makes sense. He’s living there.

“That’s far,” he hears himself say, and he wants to choke on his own breath and get swallowed up by the passenger seat as Lucas frown slightly, stealing a glance in Eliott’s direction.

Eventually he shakes his head a little, and with his eyes back on the road, he mumbles, almost to himself: “The farther, the better.”

Eliott doesn’t dare asking any more question after that.

The atmosphere has shifted a little, not in the best way, and they drive the last two kilometers home in near silence. Lucas doesn’t look mad per se, but Eliott’s starting to gather that silence isn’t his default mode. They make it through the massive electric gate of the domaine, then to the garage, Lucas’ fingers drumming on the steering wheel as they wait for the door to slide open; by the time he’s finished parking the Jeep inside, Eliott is already grabbing his backpack sitting at his feet and ready to call it a night.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, giving a small smile before unbuckling his seatbelt.

“No problem.” Eliott nods, and he’s about to get out when Lucas suddenly turns to him. “Look, I didn’t want to come here this year. Like, at all. It probably shows, uh?” He has a small wince, and Eliott mechanically settles back into his seat. “I just, you know. I’m not feeling my best around here so I kinda try to avoid coming when I can.”

Eliott twists his mouth, feeling a rush of sympathy coursing through his body. He said something about his mother on Eliott’s first day, when Charles was around. Something like _Mom forced me to come._ It’s not like Eliott has seen the boss a lot ever since, or that he had the occasion to have a full conversation with her since the first day, but she looks like someone who knows her business when it came to bossing people around.

It’s not difficult to imagine that maybe Lucas didn’t have a say in the matter.

“But hey, turns out it’s not that bad,” Lucas shrugs, bringing Eliott’s attention back on him.

 _How weak are you for this guy exactly_ , Eliott huffs to himself. This is so fucking stupid he wants to slap himself. But at the same time- At the same time it feels good. And so, so fucking right.

Lucas leans his head back against the headrest, a lopsided smile showing up on his face. “I think I can even say it’s the best year so far.”

_Maybe he’s weak for you too._

Because there’s no way to explain this otherwise. And maybe it’s fine. Maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to be complicated. The thought alone makes Eliott’s spin. He grins, letting his backpack fall back to his feet with a faint rustle. “Now I wonder what this is about,” he whispers, resting his arm on the armrest separating their seats, right behind the gear shift.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Lucas smirks, leaning forward above the console.

Eliott hums in response, shuffling closer. “I’d hate to get the wrong idea.”

Lucas huffs a quiet laugh. This time though, it’s Eliott who makes a move.

Despite his pretense, he knows, he _thinks_ he knows where they stand. He knows it in the way Lucas is looking at him, eyes dark and sparkling with want, in the lingering glances and the lazy smiles, in the way Lucas talks and moves and behaves. Eliott leans in, and he isn’t afraid, not really, when he slots their mouths together.

Afraid? Nope.

Deadly excited, yes, definitely.

Because Lucas’ mouth on his own is worth a good deal of the July 14th fireworks, and too bad for all the cliché-ness of this stupid metaphor — he can’t be bothered to care at the moment. It’s not as shockingly good as the first time in that club, no, because Eliott already had a taste of those lips before, of this mouth, and boy he loves it, he’s fucking _high_ on it, on Lucas’ smell, on the way their lips move together, of the fucking relief that maybe, just _maybe_ , he’s not so much of a player after all.

Slowly, almost lazily, they twist around a little in their seats, hands wandering hungrily as they deepen the kiss, burning embrace short-circuiting Eliott’s every fear as long as it brings him closer, closer, _closer still_. He doesn’t know where that kind of boldness comes from — he just knows that he wants more. Needs more. And it’s certainly not the goddamn armrest separating them that’s about to help him on this front. The piece of plastic and leather is digging into his stomach, stubbornly keeping them ten centimeters apart, when all Eliott wants is literally _the fucking opposite_.

His hands cling wherever they can reach, trying to make up for the those few centimeters he can do nothing about, traveling up Lucas’ sides, down his back. Lower, lower, until it settles over the curve of Lucas’ ass, drawing a low rumble from Lucas as he squeezes a little.

Lucas’ mouth shifts against his own, breaking the kiss. “Fuck, Eliott, I-,” he whispers huskily against his lips, but his voice trails off and then his tongue is back in Eliott’s mouth like it’s never even left.

Lucas’ fingers grow hungrier too, tugging sharply at the strands at the back of Eliott’s head, pulling him as close as possible with the other hand he’s curled around his neck. And Eliott? He’s fucking intoxicated with want and need. Moving together in small, perpetual motions, his hand has wandered from Lucas’ ass to his thigh, sliding underneath his shirt, traveling across the burning skin of his side in blissful exploration. At this point he just wants to draw Lucas outside, it doesn’t matter where, just somewhere they can be together, _touch_ each other-

Lucas breaks the kiss once more, with a breathy sigh that brushes over Eliott’s lips, and Eliott’s eyes flutter open, meeting Lucas’ dark ones in the dimly lit garage. “There’s something else you need to know,” Lucas whispers, panting slightly as his thumb brushes across Eliott’s cheek. The motion makes Eliott lean into the touch, and he’s forced to tear his eyes away from Lucas’ perfect lips as he speaks. “I’m not… Look, around here, I’m not out.”

Eliott blinks, once, twice, trying to catch up on what he just said — which isn’t the easiest thing, with a ~~n~~ hazy-ass brain like he currently has.

“In London it’s different,” Lucas adds, “but here it’s… more complicated.”

Something churns into Eliott’s stomach and he pulls away a little. “Oh. Yeah, I-… I’m sorry,” he mumbles, taking his hands off him carefully. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Lucas’ hands shoot up, settling Eliott’s back where he had them a second ago. “What are you talking about,” he laughs quietly, pushing himself up onto his seat, to make up for the few centimeters separating them. “I’ve never said I didn’t want you to do _anything_.” He punctuates it with a peck on Eliott’s lips. “Just that we will need-,” another kiss, “a bit more-” _another kiss_ “-discretion.”

_Discretion._

Lucas wants discretion. Literally. So what? They’ll have to sneak around and Eliott will get to… _Holy fuck._ The mere thought of going through with it, actually getting to take those clothes off Lucas and having his way with him makes his head spin and his dick strain against the zipper of his battered jeans.

“Well, too bad,” he whispers back, nuzzling into his neck where he’s trailing his mouth down, “cause I made plans to tell my boss how much I want her son in my bed.”

He knows it wasn’t what this was about, but still. Even if Lucas _was_ out he’s not sure they could have been… public, about it. Them. Whatever is that thing they have going on.

Lucas lets out a snort. “Well, easy, tiger. Trust me.” He lightly tugs at Eliott’s hair. “You don’t want to do that tonight. You might even thank me tomorrow.”

Eliott forces himself to tear his face away from his neck, but he only does it with a complaining whine that makes Lucas chuckle quietly. Outside it’s getting dark, which can only mean one thing — it’s getting late, and he fucking hates it.

Lucas ruffles his hair playfully. “You should go to sleep, it’s way past your bedtime.”

Eliott looks him in the eye, unwavering. “Maybe you should put me to bed.”

A grin stretches onto Lucas’ lips. “Someone’s getting cheeky,” he drawls, patting his cheek. “I love it.” He pecks him on the lips, quick but strangely soft, and before Eliott can even try to coax him into making out some more, sleep be damned, Lucas presses his hand flat onto his chest. “Now go to sleep.”

And like-

Okay maybe it makes him groan, and maybe he’s a tiny bit disappointed, but fuck that voice makes it all the more difficult to keep his mind on tracks. And with the way Lucas looks at him, with that stupid smirk on his face and the knowing eyes, Eliott suspects he’s very much aware of what this is about — and still he slips out of the car, Eliott slumping back into his seat for a second longer.

The things that guy do to him shouldn’t be possible after… what? Three encounters? Three where they have talked, at least. He braces himself and follows Lucas’ cue out of the car, while Lucas is already opening the trunk to get the bike out.

“Don’t think about me too much,” Lucas says as he lets go of it, before pecking Eliott on the lips once more.

He obviously means it as a quick goodbye, but Eliott doesn’t let him have the final say. Holding the bike with one hand, he keeps Lucas in place with the other, his hand resting at the back of his neck to make the kiss last just a little bit longer.

“Go, before I kick your ass,” Lucas mutters with an affected sigh when they part.

Eliott grins and Lucas rolls his eyes as he exits the garage, walking out into the night.

**JEUDI, 19:21**

**JEUDI, 20:08**

“Sofiane Alaoui,” Idriss yells, hammering the bathroom door with the flat of his hand and absolutely no regard whatsoever for Eliott’s creeping headache. “You better hurry the fuck up, Emma’s waiting!”

“Give me two minutes!”

Idriss heaves a long sigh and turns to Eliott, who’s laying on his bed with his arm flung over his face. “Are you sure you don’t wanna join?”

 _Abso-freakin-lutely sure, yeah_.

The main reason for that? Oh, nothing big, just the fact that a couple of hundred meters away from there, Lucas is waiting for him to show up. The mere thought of it makes Eliott’s stomach do a somersault, like it’s been doing every once in a while ever since he first received the first text a couple of minutes ago.

_Fucking hell._

Hear him out, Emma’s a real gem, and in other circumstances he’d have been a hundred percent excited to go wander around whatever place she’s elected for their night out — it’s what he does, what he _loves_ doing usually. But on other hand-

Well. On the other hand, he’s only human. And he really, really wants to get some time with Lucas. Especially after last night.

“Nah, I’m good. I just need to lay down right now,” he says, vaguely waving from his hand. He punctuates it with a small yawn to prove his point.

Idriss hums in response. “Maybe you got a heatstroke or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he mutters, trying to ignore the guilt he feels creeping over him. He tries to give a small smile. “Honestly I’m fine, relax. Just a bit tired.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t go. Emma will understand.”

Eliott snorts. Exploring an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere at dusk isn’t on the shortlist of things Idriss likes to do in his spare time, and it’s more than obvious that he wants to ditch. But if he’s getting cold feet and stays here, and Eliott is stuck trying to play sick, he’s not sure he’ll resist murdering his best friend out of sheer despair.

“I just need to lay down,” he repeats, trying to sound convincing. “If you stick around tonight you’ll just have to watch me sleep and that’s really no fun.”

“Alright,” Idriss mutters, voice dragging a little. “ _Sofiane_!”

Eliott groans to himself, just as the bathroom swings open.

“Yes, yes, I’m _here_ ,” Sofiane bites back dryly, adjusting his black tee-shirt. “Stop being a fucking animal.” Idriss rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath, but Sofiane ignores him in favor of Eliott. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”

Who would have thought pretending to be sick would be such a pain? His mom has stopped believing him at some point in middle school, so for the most part he just dropped the act altogether years ago. A little bit of practice could definitely come in handy now.

“I’m just gonna sleep,” he says once again, trying to stay calm and patient.

He’s going to snap. Either he’s going to give in and follow them or tell them to fuck off — he’s truly no good under pressure and he can feel it bubbling just below the surface. Sofiane opens his mouth and Eliott braces himself for the implosion when a car honking in the distance drives his friend’s attention away.

“Must be Emma,” Idriss says on his way out. “C’mon Sof, let the man sleep.”

Eliott waves from his bed until they shut the door behind themselves, and he waits another two, three minutes to bolt upright and dig his phone out from under his pillow.

‘ _Does the offer still stand?_ ’, he types hastily, and he lets out a frustrated hiss after repeatedly hitting the wrong letters.

He hasn’t replied to Lucas’ invitation yet, mostly because he’s tried not to jinx it by saying he would totally come, only for Idriss and Sofiane to decide they don’t really feel like going out after all. Problem is, it’s all been about half an hour ago now. What if he’s just assumed Eliott would be a no-show? What if he’s thought Eliott is ghosting him? He doesn’t really think Lucas is the kind to run after someone, and the mere thought that-

His phone lights up with a new text and Eliott’s stomach dives.

_‘It does.’_

It’s laconic enough to make Eliott’s mouth twist a little, but he tries to will the goblins in his head to shut the hell up and not start making a mess. ‘ _Omw’,_ he quickly replies, hopping down his bed and nearly tripping over the sheets in his hast. He allows himself a quick peek in the bathroom, running a hand a couple of times in his hair while staring doubtfully in the mirror, and then he’s off.

His heart is thrumming in his ribcage as he walks up the dirt track to the farmhouse.

His first encounter with the boss and her stupid nephew on the first day has discouraged them from wandering too often in that area during their free-time, so they generally stick to the other part of the property instead, where it’s quieter and a lot chiller. But now? Now he feels like a man on a mission.

Which feels as dumb as you’re probably thinking.

He keeps looking around with every step he takes forward, but it seems useless considering there’s not a living soul in sight and the lights in the boss’ study are off. Lucas said he was behind the house, so he opts to describe a curve to the side, where he can see a corner of the icy-blue water of the pool peeking out. Call him slow, but it’s only then, as he gets closer and closer, that he realizes that _holy shit there’s a pool_. Like, he’s seen it a bunch of times already from afar, but it hasn’t sunk in yet, not until-

Well, not until his eyes stumble on Lucas in the water.

Eliott’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. Lucas’ legs are lazily treading on the spot, his elbows resting on the deck as he’s scrolling down his phone — and honestly, never before Eliott has realized either how much back dimples do it for him. Biting onto his bottom lip, he tries to pull himself back together and steps closer, until Lucas’ head snaps in his direction.

A smirk shows up on his face, easy and cheeky. His wet hair is slicked back, and it makes his bone structure and his deep blue eyes pop even more. “What excuse did you give to sneak out?”, Lucas says in lieu of a greeting. He lets go of his phone and turns over to shamelessly stare as Eliott rounds the pool.

Oh God.

He’s got abs.

Real, fucking abs.

Six fucking pack and all.

He swears he’s about to pass out. “I said I was too beaten up to go out,” he croaks out pathetically.

Lucas doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t bother acknowledging the massive effect he obviously has on him; instead he just huffs, rolling over once more to follow his progression. “But not too beaten up to join me here? You’re a bad, bad friend,” he deadpans, but it’s… fond. Yes. And Eliott’s not sure what’s even his name as he sits down on the deck and Lucas pulls himself closer in the water. “You do look tired though.”

Eliott shrugs, but he feels his cheeks heating up a little bit as Lucas’ eyes unabashedly roam over his face. “Why are you so obsessed with my sleeping schedule?”

“I’ve had insomnia for a few years, it’s not fun,” he replies off-handedly.

He pushes himself up, water running down his body in a splash as he pulls himself out of the water to sit on the deck next to Eliott. It’s getting hard to pretend he’s not absolutely obsessed with Lucas’ body now. All he can stare at now are his abs, and the swim trucks clinging onto him in all the right places, and the water he’s dying to lick off his skin and-

Eyes. Staring right into his soul.

If Eliott even thought he was blushing before, it’s nothing compared to the sheer fire he feels lighting up underneath his skin right now. Lucas grins, looking unbothered. He seems pleased with himself. Pleased to see he’s got an effect on him, definitely. Eliott looks away, clearing his throat quietly. He reaches for his shoes, taking them off along with his socks, and he rolled his pants up before letting his legs dangle in the water.

He nearly lets out a content sigh at the feeling. The quietness of the evening, the water of the pool, and Lucas, _Lucas_ , it feels like a dream more than reality. Lucas softly nudges him in the ankle, drawing his attention back onto him.

“It’s nice seeing you,” he says, and the words roll off his tongue, easy and casual, like they aren’t making Eliott’s heartbeat skyrocket into a different galaxy.

They look at each other, Eliott’s stomach tightening as his eyes skim over Lucas’ chiseled face. Next thing he knows, Lucas is leaning forward, their lips almost touching a split-second before Eliott recoils away.

Something akin to confusion and coldness laced together flashes through Lucas’ eyes.

“I thought- I mean I thought you didn’t want anyone to know,” Eliott whispers, and Lucas’ face softens a little as he shrugs.

“It’s okay. My mom’s out and the rest have nicely gone fuck themselves somewhere else.” He doesn’t know who ‘the rest’ is supposed to be, but he really doesn’t want to ask now.

Eliott blinks a little. “So you’d have spent the evening alone if I hadn’t come?”

Lucas snickers. “Is that pity I hear?”

“Surprise, at the most.”

“You volunteered to waste your time with me, it’s all good,” Lucas says, stretching his arms, and before Eliott can try to make amends for the aborted kiss and ruining the perfect moment for a lazy make out session, Lucas drops himself back into the water.

He’s left to stare at him in soul-crushing disappointment, as Lucas turns around in the water, swimming off to the center of the pool. “Wanna swim?”

Eliott huffs. “Too bad, I didn’t bring my swim trunks.”

Lucas barks a laugh, swimming closer to the edge. “I heard you were good friends with the owner’s son. Maybe he can make a special exception for you.”

“Really, uh?”, Eliott says, chewing onto his bottom lip. “And what kind of exception?”

Before he can even realize what’s happening, what situation he’s putting himself into, Lucas reaches the deck. But not anywhere, right between Eliott’s legs. _Oh God_. This boy’s going to be the death of him. Lucas’ wet hands run up his clothed thighs, before his arms circle around his waist to pull himself closer.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Lucas says, his low voice making a shiver run up Eliott’s body, “you’re wearing too many clothes for that right now.”

Eliott is positive an entire hemisphere of his brain has fried up as he stares down at him. “You’re driving me crazy,” he whispers, voice rough.

Lucas grins, wide and bright, and he pushes himself up a little more, reaching to cup the back of Eliott’s head to pull him down. Their lips meet halfway, a bit bruising and a bit desperate, and Eliott puts his all in that simple kiss. He’s not always good with words, not the way Lucas seems to be — sometimes he just feels like he feels too much, like his feelings are too big for words, for sentences, for anything to convey them. But now he wants to show Lucas, to tell him, to let him know how much meeting him is making him feel.

Like he can fucking fly.

When they part for air, he feels like he’s high.

“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” Lucas observes, slowly letting go of Eliott’s neck to ease himself back down in the water. He lifts Eliott’s shirt, the faint brush of the material nearly making him buck his hips already — and then there are lips. On him. Pressing over his stomach, trailing kisses down his belly, and the breath that escapes Eliott’s lips must be heard all the way to the fucking confines of the domaine.

“Lucas,” he lets out, panting, nearly begging already. His thighs tremble a little on either side of him.

Reaching for leverage, Lucas pushes himself up, water running down his chest, and Eliott finds himself practically face to face with him. “Join me in the pool,” Lucas singsongs.

Fucking shit, that’s probably what goddamn mermaids look like. Bursting out of the water, perfect and glistening under the sun and dragging horny sailors into the ocean under the promise of release.

 _He can drown me for all I fucking care_.

Lucas’ eyes are on him as he drops himself back into the water, pushing himself off the edge and away from Eliott with a defiant glance that leaves him like a wreck. With a fucking tent in his pants to complete the picture. Eliott’s hands fly to the hem of his shirt, grabbing it to pull it away with the rapidity of a fumbling first-timer, and Lucas laughs from the center of the pool. He’s treading water, his eyes not leaving him as Eliott pulls himself up onto his feet to get rid of his pants.

The water and the chlorine make his skin burn a little where the sun has bitten it when he drops himself in the pool, but he just doesn’t want to think about it. He _doesn’t care_ , because Lucas is there, so fucking close, and he just _needs_ to get his hands on him, even if he has to drown in the process. Lucas splashes him playfully, letting out a raspy laugh, and Eliott flicks some water his way in response. He makes a move to try and dunk him, but Lucas probably saw it coming from a kilometer away and he easily slips out from his grip.

“Weren’t you the one who asked me to come?”, Eliott huffs, turning around to follow him with his eyes as Lucas swims around him.

He smirks in response. “I did want you to come,” he admits, swimming behind Eliott. The water ripples around Eliott’s sides as he gets closer. “I still do.”

Eliott turns around. Lucas is so close he can’t resist — he pulls him closer by the waist, hands hungrily roaming the new expanse of skin he gets to touch for the first time. Lucas’ hands find his face, lips crashing together messily.

Hands buried in each other’s hair, wet lips sliding against one another, tongues tangling and exploring eagerly… Kissing Lucas will fucking never get old, he knows as much. He just _knows_.

Eliott tiptoes at the bottom of the pool, pushing Lucas slowly until his back presses against the tiled wall. Like in slow-motion, movements slow and lazy in the water, Lucas’ legs wrap around Eliott’s frame, and the moment he finds himself pressed against him he can’t hold back a gasp, kiss breaking as he tries to pull himself together and fails miserably.

Does he only _want_ to?

No. Not a fucking chance.

Lucas’ fingers travel through his wet hair, and he cups his face with one hand. His eyes are wild and dark, sending a shiver down Eliott’s body as he crumbles a little more against him. The tiniest movement of his hips makes their erections brush together, only separated by the thin material of Eliott’s underwear and Lucas’ swim trunks, and _it’s so fucking good_ , he thinks he’s going to pass out. A simple touch, oh so fucking simple, that makes him start doubting every bit of pleasure he’s ever had before.

Lucas’ breath hitches soundly and he lets out a gasp.

“Fuck, I-,” Eliott starts, and he tries to detach himself a little, to no avail. He just fucking can’t break apart, not even a millimeter — instead his mouth trails along Lucas’ jawline. “You’re so fucking perfect.” He sighs into the other’s neck, nosing along his throat.

Lucas lets out a faint chuckle. It sounds breathy and strained. “And you have no fucking idea what you do to me,” he breaths into Eliott’s ear, head rolling to the side. “I get a fucking boner-” Eliott’s hips react on their own, brushing himself against Lucas’, and Lucas loses his train of thoughts for a split second, “-every time I _smoke_ now.”

A faint groan escapes Eliott’s lips. “Lucas, fuck…” He grinds again, adding more pressure this time, and too bad if it breaks him too in the process — the quiet moan coming from Lucas is entirely worth it. “I-” He struggles to find his words, even though they are _oh_ so easy. “I fucking want to touch you. _Please_.”

Lucas gives a squeeze of his thighs around Eliott as a first response, and Eliott’s body jerks forward. “You better,” he breathes out, seeking his lips until their mouths crash back together.

They suck on the same gulp of air, loudly, almost desperately. _Fucking shit_. It feels like his whole body is about to melt, like it’s not water around them but the goddamn inferno of a volcano pit. He loses himself into the kiss, feeling the teasing rubbing of Lucas’ tongue into his mouth, the subtle nibbling of his teeth on his bottom lip. His hand travel from its spot onto the small of Lucas’ back to his front, fingers sliding underneath the waistband of Lucas’ swim trunks.

Lucas is hard for him. _So fucking hard_. And he’s there, perfect and wanting and only for him to take. It’s so fucking maddening he breaks the kiss, head spinning a little as he lets it drop against Lucas’ shoulder.

“Touch me now,” Lucas demands, lips brushing against the shell of Eliott’s ear.

It lights up a fire inside Eliott, conflicting emotions clashing together. He wants to obey, he wants to do that, pull the swim trunks down and have his way with him, that’s all he’s wanted since the fucking club. But on the other hand there’s a hint of defiance sparking up in his veins.

Like he wants to make Lucas run the extra mile for it.

Beg and writhe, and for Eliott to decide when and where.

Except that he doesn’t know how much more he can take, and he can’t break apart just yet, not with Lucas in his arms. So he obeys, and in a split second of blissful euphoria, he wraps his hand around Lucas’ length, heart thrumming in his chest, swallowing the gasp that escapes past Lucas’ lips with his own.

Lucas’ body jerks a little, and he pushes into his hand, thrusting between his fingers. It makes Eliott feel so fucking powerful he gives a sharp pump, then a much slower one, messing with the rhythm Lucas is trying to build by and for himself.

“Don’t be a tease,” he groans against his lips, but it sounds nearly plaintive and it goes straight to Eliott’s dick.

Eliott silences him with another kiss, but he starts stroking him again, slow but steady, building up a pace as he keeps thrusting in rhythm against Lucas’ thigh.

He’s so lost in it, into the weight of Lucas’ length throbbing in his hand, into Lucas’ pleasured grunts and the shared warm breaths that he doesn’t hear it at first — not until Lucas violently startles, wide eyes meeting Eliott’s hazy ones.

“Fuck there’s someone coming,” he breathes out, and that’s when Eliott’s brain catches up on the sound of a car driving closer and closer, engine disturbing the peaceful atmosphere of the lazy evening.

They bolt apart, guiltily so, and it makes something churn in Eliott’s stomach — he shoves it down as much as possible. Now isn’t the fucking time. The car parks by the entrance, on the other side of the house, door already slamming shut as Eliott pushes himself up and out of the pool in a big splash of water. He sprints to reach for his clothes and his shoes, not even thinking that he might have slipped and broken his neck in the process. Lights are flipped on inside the house, and it’s the last thing Eliott gets to see before he throws himself behind the line of cypress lining the pool deck.

He can vaguely see Lucas weirdly trying to get a hold of himself in the water, treading on the spot in the middle of the pool, and it hurts Eliott a little to see that the only thing pointing that he’s ever been there at all is a puddle of water on the deck. Holding his clothes tight against his chest, a small chill runs up his wet skin, he tries to be as invisible as possible as one of the door-window opens.

“Oh, that’s you,” someone says.

Charles.

He can’t see the expression on Lucas’ face from there, but he imagines it sharp and closed-off, like he always seems to be around his cousin. “Well, yes. I exist,” Lucas replies without skipping a beat. “I thought you were at Manon’s.”

 _Attack is always the best defense_ , he thinks to himself.

“She’s out with her friends and I have some work to catch up on,” Charles says. “Someone has to do it.”

It makes Eliott bite down onto his lip, and his fingers tighten around his shoe as he tries really hard not to throw it right into Charles’ head. To be fair the branch masking him almost entirely also helps. Lucas moves in the pool, getting closer to the deck. He doesn’t quite catch his response but Charles snorts disdainfully.

“Yeah. Whatever,” he says, footsteps growing fainter and fainter as he walks away.

Lucas pushes himself out of the water, and despite the scare, Eliott feels hardening in his wet underwear. He looks so fucking good-

 _And he’s such a fucking forbidden territory_.

Technically not, but practically yes. Disappointment stabs him a handful of times as Lucas slowly rounds the pool, casually throwing a look above his shoulder as he steps on the grass and pads closer to Eliott’s hiding spot. He drops his clothes to the ground and fumbles for his jeans, pulling them on despite his wet skin when Lucas slides behind the cypress.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, mouth twisting unhappily. 

“It’s fine,” Eliott replies, hastily putting his shirt on. It clings to his skin but it’ll do until he gets to the cabin to dry himself off. He brushes his hair away from his face, before crouching down to slide into his shoes, shoving his socks in his pockets.

It has a bit of a bitter taste, and he regrets not sending one of them in Charles’ head when he had the opportunity to do so.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Lucas says again, searching Eliott’s eyes.

He looks so fucking beautiful it catches into Eliott’s throat. The mere thought that he had his hands on him only a minute before can’t quite sink in — it’s too much, and fucking, so fucking not enough all at once.

He nods briefly, taking a step back to leave before any permanent damage is done. “Catch up later,” he says, feeling a bit awkward.

Lucas grabs his face, pulling him in for a quick kiss. A rapid brush of the lips, barely a second, and then it’s already over, far too soon for Eliott’s taste — but more than what he’s even allowed to hope, for better or fucking worse.

Lucas gives him a surprisingly gentle pat on the cheek, then he pulls away and retreats towards the pool.

**VENDREDI, 08:32**

Eliott likes to think of himself as fairly optimistic, if not outright positive. Sure, there are moments of doubts and self-depreciation, of ‘what the hell’ and ‘fuck everything’. But the mood he woke up with that morning? That’s a rare occurrence. Truly.

Still. As soon as he heard the alarm going off, lighting up the ceiling of the cabin, he’s wanted to commit murder, and it’s not even because it was 6 in the morning, it’s not even like he wanted to sleep some more, _no_ , that would imply that he slept at all. Which, with his bleary eyes drilling holes into the ceiling and the headache he’s been sporting since this morning, he’s frankly been starting to doubt it.

Hours went by, and he mostly tossed, and mostly turned, and mostly hated the world.

It’s pathetic, and humiliating, and yet here he is, reduced to his most primal instincts: he, Eliott Demaury, has the fucking blue balls, and it fucking _sucks_.

All he’s been able to think about since last night is Lucas, Lucas, _Lucas,_ beautiful Lucas, cocky Lucas, _wet Lucas_. Jesus fucking Christ he’s starting to lose his mind. It’s not helping that Idriss and Sofiane stumbled back into their cabin well after midnight, giggling and hushing, while Eliott was still reeling from the aborted pool action. His only response to his best friends’ lack of discretion was to pointedly (and pettily) turn over in his bed, sharply enough to make the bed springs creak loudly, making their laughter die down quickly.

To make matters even worse, when he got out of the cabin, it was to notice that it was still suspiciously dark outside; the weather apparently turned at some point through the night. The air has been thick and heavy, palpable and the temperature has spiked up, reaching 25°C well before 8 in the morning. Unlike the other days, the sky is littered with cottony puffs of white floating on a light blue field, which is apparently enough to warrant some worry from Mr. Savary.

“All that rain last month and it’s still not enough,” he grumbled at some point, nose in the air, like he was trying to see something in the sky no one else can.

Eliott wishes he could say he cares, but deep down, not really. He’s far too busy being cranky in his corner to really give a shit. He’s busying himself on his row, immersing himself in a sea of vibrant green leaves. If he was scared to mess up at the beginning of the week, that ship has long sailed by now; it’s not a complicated task, just painfully repetitive. All he has to do is to pick a ripe cluster, clip it, and drop the grapes in the plastic bucket at his feet. Pick, clip, drop, repeat.

 _Pick, clip, drop_ , _repeat_.

“What’s with the long face?”, Sofiane asks at some point, from his spot across from him.

Eliott barely spares him a glance. “The weather is shit,” he mutters, clipping another cluster before letting it slide in the plastic bucket.

Sofiane hums, mirroring his own gestures with a few second delay. “You were already pissy last night though.”

 _Yes, because I was this close to fucking Lucas Lallemant_ , he wants to scream. It’s dumb. He doesn’t even know why he’s so frustrated, he just knows he can’t help it and it makes him feel like an animal, completely unable to suppress his own instincts.

 _Fuck that shit_.

But if anything Sofiane is smart enough to make it difficult for him to simply dodge the question without him sensing he’s doing just that — and since outing Lucas is out of the question he’s got to give him something a little bit more satisfying, he can only guess.

“I’m not feeling all that great and I’m stuck with my script,” he mumbles. He crouches down to drag his plastic bucket along with him as he takes a step to the side.

“Maybe you should give it a few days,” Sofiane shrugs. “Take some time off.”

 _It doesn’t work like that_ , he almost says, but he bites his tongue just in time.

A loud, thunder-like rumble coming from behind Eliott disrupts the relative quietness of the grape-pickers, making a few heads turn, including Eliott’s and Sofiane’s. Idriss has climbed on the tractor, with Thierry, Mr. Savary’s right-hand man, perched on the footboard. The sound of the engine is making it near-impossible to hear what they’re saying at all, but Thierry is pointing at a pedal at Idriss’ feet, then gestures at something that looks vaguely like a joystick, and Idriss nods a couple of times with a very concentrated frown on his face.

Eliott and Sofiane exchange a look.

“Someone’s having the time of their life,” Sofiane comments, laughter not far behind. He wipes his hand on his tee-shirt and reaches for his phone in his back pocket, snapping a shot quickly. “Imane won’t believe it unless she sees it,” he snickers, and Eliott even huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he focuses back on his task.

Sofiane’s right about one thing, Idriss’ first attempt at driving anything that isn’t allowed on the ring-road of Paris shouldn’t go unrecorded, that’s for sure. He keeps throwing a look or two behind his shoulder every now and then, mostly every time the tractor makes a sound Eliott’s positive it shouldn’t be making, but after an hour or so it seems like his best friend is starting to get a better hold of the engine.

Eliott’s attention drifts away from Idriss’ progress, only perking up when a car parks on the side of the road, a couple of hundred meters away. Big. Metallic.

A fucking jeep. _The_ jeep.

 _No one uses it_ , Lucas told him. Fuck. Eliott’s breath catches in his throat, even before someone exits the vehicle — it’s a guy he has seen on Lucas’ IG that does it first, jumping out through the passenger’s door.

“The cavalry’s here,” he yells, excitedly slamming it shut behind himself before pushing up imaginary sleeves as he speaks.

And then, following behind him-

Lucas. _Holy fucking shit._

He nonchalantly rounds the front of the car, shoving his car keys in his back pocket. All Eliott is left to think is that it’s _not_ fucking fair. Lucas looks infuriatingly good in his ratty basketball shorts and beaten up Stan Smiths; technically Eliott shouldn’t be surprised, really. If anyone can pull off the pristine white tee-shirt and pricey sneakers look one day and… well, the opposite of that the following day, it’s Lucas. The one and only. But still. _Unfair._

He tries to swallow down discreetly, coaxing himself into tearing his eyes away from him as Lucas and his friend walk over to Mr. Savary and Thierry, and he’s barely managed to do that when he realizes someone was talking to him. His head snaps to the side to find Emma grinning. She has been busy on the row behind him, practically back to back with Eliott.

“I’m sorry what?”

“It’s his grandson,” she says, gesturing from her secateurs at the guy Eliott first saw climbing out of the car, and who’s now chatting animatedly with Mr. Savary. “Basile. He comes every year but he’s usually in the afternoon team.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” he says, not really knowing what else to say. There’s this part of him that’s sure that if he keeps talking he won’t be able to refrain himself from talking about Lucas, and it’s not exactly part of the plan.

 _Having him around while you work wasn’t either_.

Shit, he really needs to think of something else. Lucas and Basile choose that exact moment to walk over there, each of them grabbing a plastic bucket on their way, Lucas letting his own swing behind his shoulder as he nonchalantly pads through the rows.

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ Who’s allowed him to look this attractive? _Not fucking fair_ , he thinks begrudgingly as he tries to busy himself with another cluster. Sofiane has overtaken him by a few by now and he needs to get back to work before anyone finds it in themselves to point out he’s being lazy.

The newcomers are welcomed on their way by returning pickers, starting with Emma who practically throws herself in their arms like they’ve known each other forever — which, considering her career, might be the truth. “What are you guys doing here?”, she asks with a large grin. “You didn’t even give a call to warn a girl?”

“Pop’s worried about the rain,” Basile says.

Eliott forces himself to go back clipping another cluster, but he could fucking swear he’s feeling Lucas’ energy close-by. He tries to drown the playful chatter as much as possible, if only to empty his brain and catch up with Sofiane. Yes. Sofiane.

And absolutely not the guy Eliott _almost_ had sex with the night before.

Said guy walks past him, making his heart jump a little when their eyes meet briefly. It’s not a particularly warm glance, which he’s expecting on some level, but it’s not outright void of emotions. Maybe he’s reaching but it almost feels like… Yeah. It feels like a _hey you_ kind of glance. He gives a small nod, probably a split second too late for Lucas to notice as he moves over to the row behind Sofiane with his friend.

For a moment, things seem to settle back as they were before the boys arrived. Methodic, a tad boring, uneventful. Eliott puts a lot of efforts in trying to catch up with Sofiane, which results in a new cut on his hand and a string of curses on his part, but for the most part he’s managed to get back in the game. The temperature keeps rising as the minutes, then the hours go on, and as smoking hot as Lucas is by nature, he’s not entirely at fault for the way Eliott feels at the moment.

Well. Not entirely.

The fact that Eliott feels like he had been thrown into a volcano pit is only _partially_ due to that moment where he makes eye contact with Lucas, as they are both busy working a couple of meters apart, only for Lucas to wink at him. Wink. Yes. _The fucking asshole_. Eliott nearly chokes himself at the sight, and Lucas is so quick to pretend like nothing happened that for at least fifteen minutes Eliott genuinely wonders whether or not he’s hallucinated the whole thing.

It’s maddening. By the time they get their fifteen-minute morning break, Eliott’s nerves are beginning to tense dangerously and the temperature is reaching new and near-unbearable levels, making his hair stick to his temples and his clothes cling to his skin.

“There’s definitely a storm brewing,” Emma notices as they grab water bottles and sit down on the grass next to the cars lined up along the road. Sofiane starts chatting with her and Idriss, once he’s sauntered his way back to their group, looking very satisfied with his newfound teacher’s pet spot.

Eliott, for his part, has dropped himself on the ground a meter or two away to light up a cigarette, and he’s patting his pockets in search of his Zippo when a hand and a lighter appear in his visual field. He blinks, crossed-eyed, then looks up to find Lucas standing casually in front of him.

“Let me help,” he offers with an easy smile, lighting up Eliott’s cigarette when he receives no answer. Not quite waiting for an invitation or a ‘thank you’, Lucas drops himself on the spot next to him.

“I didn’t know you worked with the pickers,” Eliott says, only for him to hear, after taking a first inhale to calm his nerves.

“Every once in a while,” Lucas says conversationally. He picks up the hem of his shirt and lifts it up to wipe a thin layer of sweat off his face, and Eliott has to mentally count backward to try and calm himself. “When they need back-ups.”

It’s a chance he doesn’t have his secateurs around or he would have probably stabbed himself in the eye by now — anything to distract himself, and not think about how he wants to lick Lucas’ abs so fucking much. The mere memory of how his skin felt like under his touch, the gasps he made, the taste of his lips, it all makes his head spin and his skin catch on fire.

Eliott looks to the side, stealing a glance at Lucas’ direction. “You didn’t get in trouble, did you?”

Lucas grabs his water bottle and takes a sip before replying, quirking a brow in his direction. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Charles. The pool,” he says, chewing on his bottom lip between two puffs of smoke.

Lucas scoffs, but it sounds dry. “He can suck it. It’s my house, in case you forgot.”

“Of course,” Eliott adds quickly, a bit taken aback by the turn of the conversation. “I just mean that- you know, he could-”

“Well he doesn’t.”

His tone feels dismissive enough for Eliott to feel embarrassed for even asking, and he quietly tugs at his cigarette in silence with a quiet sense of déjà-vu. In the background he can hear Basile’s already familiar voice excitedly babbling in the distance, emphasizing the silence that is stretching out, long and embarrassing between them.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, Lucas stops toying with his water bottle, and he shuffles to rise up on his feet. 

**VENDREDI, 15:27**

**SAMEDI, 12:36**

**SAMEDI, 23:54**

Eliott found out, at some point through his very scarce research on the field, that the Bordeaux region is not only exceptionally rainy and humid, but the rainiest in the whole country.

Naturally, as a Parisian born and bred, it’s in his very nature to doubt that sort of statement. Somehow he just _knows_ that although it’s the most boring trivia in the world, it’s the only one people could think of to try and make it sound like this region in particular stands out from the rest.

Bottom line is, he was wrong.

Big time.

The August weather, abnormally warm and dry, just lured him into a false sensation of safety, only to pull the rug under his feet not quite a week later. He can’t say it happened out of the blue, because it’s been a damp hell for practically twenty-four hours at this point, clouds riding lows and air thick and heavy as ever, and if Eliott got paid ten euros every single time he heard a variation of ‘a storm is coming’ or ‘there’s a storm brewing’ he’d probably be well on his way back home by now.

But still, when a loud rumble coming from above made everything tremble, in the middle of the afternoon, it did seem a teeny tiny bit random.

“I don’t like that,” Sofiane mumbled, after startling onto his seat.

They were sitting at the terrace across the laundromat where they left their stash of dirty clothes to wash. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Idriss said, waving dismissively before taking a sip of his diet coke.

In the end they didn’t stay long in Saint-A after that. Turns out storms tend to get Sofiane all fidgety, and after fifteen more minutes spent staring at him pacing back and forth in the laundromat, they decided to go back to the domaine in case the weather worsened — and it did. The rain started falling fifteen seconds top after they closed the door of their cabin, on their way back from a quick dinner, and it didn’t stop one bit during the rest of the evening, leaving them bored to death as they played crappy card games huddled up in their cabin while the rain poured outside.

Out of boredom, they were forced to turn in early, which has since left Eliott far too much time on his hands to think. It’s hard to wrap his head around the fact that it’s been only a week, when it feels like a century since he’s left home.

Or rather like, since the night at the club.

And since the pool episode. Just the thought of it all makes him want to burry his face into his pillow — more out of frustration than sexual frustration this time. He knows he’s in the clear with Lucas, with him apologizing and all, but still. There’s this part of him that just wants more, and the other that knows he can’t have it. Lying flat on his back, he stares at nothing, blinking silently, just listening to the rain echoing on the roof of the cabin, and Sofiane and Idriss quietly snoring in their respective corner. He digs out his phone from underneath his pillow, squinting hard when it lights up the whole room, and he has to shuffle around on his stomach to try to limit the nuisance for his friends.

His fingers hover over his conversation with Lucas, itching to type even the dumbest texts he can think of.

_Are you asleep?_

_Are you okay?_

_I miss you_.

It’s so fucking dumb, he thinks, groaning quietly to himself as he burrows his face into his elbow. His phone drops screen down on his pillow without him typing anything. He’s a hundred percent sure Lucas doesn’t care all that much, why can’t he just do the same?

 _Because you get attached_. He’s the fucking dumbest guy on the planet, that’s what he is.

He picks up his phone begrudgingly, shoving it back under his pillow, and when it lights up the first thing he thinks about is that it’s nothing. Probably a notification of sorts he doesn’t give two shits about.

His heart jumps in his chest when he reads Lucas’ name. It’s a text, and he swipes the screen unlocked faster than he takes his next breath.

_‘Can you come over? I know it’s super late, sorry.’_

Coming over.

Eliott’s brain short-circuits briefly, his phone feeling heavy in his hand.

 _‘At the big house?’,_ he types, and he feels dumb just by asking. He knows it’s the big house. He just wants to make sure he’s not drawing weird conclusions. Because last he’s checked, it’s the opposite of being discreet.

Lucas’ answer is quick to come _. ‘Yeah.’_

Before Eliott even fires a hasty ‘ _omw’_ , he’s already moving, a cold chill running up his spine as the bed creaks loudly in the silent cabin. He freezes, heart thrumming, listening to see if Sofiane or Idriss have picked up on it, but after a few seconds of silence, he resumes his task at hand — dressing up in the dark. His clothes are piled up next to his bed; he blindly searches for his hoodie, that he hasn’t been able to wear in at least three days now, and throws it on before reaching for a pair of ratty sweatpants he brought along, that are still in his travel bag.

His way to the front door is a sum of mentally counting his steps and his breaths, hand reaching far in front of him to locate the door handle. It’s really his luck that he’s got to sneak out the one night the rain is pouring — he winces to himself when the sound fills the silent cabin as he leaps outside.

The night is deep and dark and humid. He turns up the flashlight on his phone to avoid tripping, pulling up the hood on his head and ducking his face in his shoulders as he walks. The big house is getting closer and closer, and he soon finds himself staring up at the three floors in search of something, anything — maybe some courage. The rain is still pouring strong, clapping loudly against the ground, streaming down where the trail goes further down, and it’s not long before Eliott is drenched to the bones. His hoodie is clinging to his skin by the time he sees it — there’s a door-window on the side of the ground floor, and Eliott feels his heartbeat quickening as it opens.

He walks up over there, splattering the bottom of his pants as he steps from puddle to puddle, rain coming into his face. There are only a few steps left and then-

Then he reaches the house, and the open door, and Lucas is there. His hair is combed back like he’s brushed it off his face a few times in a row, and he’s only wearing a slightly oversized tee-shirt over his boxers. He looks as effortlessly good as usual, and Eliott’s breath catches a little at the sight, nearly missing the moment Lucas extends a hand for him to catch. All of a sudden he’s pulled forward, crossing the threshold until they’re both standing in the doorframe. The warmth inside the house instantly bites his wet cheeks, and he’s a little unsure as he reaches to wipe a few drops of water running down his face with the back of his hand.

“Hey,” he breaths quietly — so quiet it’s not even enough to disturb the sound of the rain.

“Hi,” Lucas replies the same way, raising his chin just a little to look him in the eye. “Sorry for the rain.”

Eliott twists his mouth a little, pushing his dripping wet hood back. “It’s okay.”

He wants to ask. Why he’s here, why now, why _especially now_. He doesn’t want to get false hopes, he doesn’t want to look like he’s pushing Lucas into an uncomfortable situation — god knows he doesn’t need it. But fuck he wants it. So fucking much he’s barely able to keep himself together, to keep himself in check, when all he wants is to reach out and pull him close.

There’s blood pounding into his ears, so loud it’s almost enough to match the rain whipping against the walls outside, and Eliott’s eyes keep roaming over Lucas’ face, scrutinizing, searching for every clue he can find, but his expression is… It’s difficult to read. Lucas’ eyes are barely noticeable in the dark, and his demeanor is more collected than Eliott could ever dream in a situation like this.

Lucas’ lips part a little, and he sees more than he hears a small hitch in his breathing. He sees his chest rising with a sharp inhale, and Eliott’s eyes fall onto his mouth, slowly trailing down along his sharp jawline, falling onto his collarbones peeking out through the wide collar of his tee-shirt — and then darting back onto his face.

He doesn’t really know who leans in first in the end. He thinks it might be Lucas, but maybe they both do. Their lips crash together, they suck in the same breath, harsh and bruising, and his arms wrap instinctively around his frame. It gets messy and rushed, because Eliott’s starting to learn now, he thinks, to make the most of moments like these, even if it hurts, even if it’s not enough. They break apart as the rain doubles, whipping mercilessly, and Lucas slips away to reach for the door; Eliott’s arms feel empty, and his mouth tingles a little.

“Take off your shoes,” Lucas whispers, raising his index finger and pressing it softly to Eliott’s lips.

 _What now_ , he wants to ask. But the truth is, he knows. He knows before Lucas reaches for his hand, he knows before he gives him another sign to keep quiet, he knows before they make their way outside the living room. 

He knows.

And he swears he’s fucking high.


	2. Week II, Lucas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the positive feedback about week 1, it really means the world to know people like this story 🥰  
> week 2 is up and lucas is here 👀🔥 as usual, please, remember the ground rule about smut: don't make fun of a girl who tries 🙊

**DIMANCHE, 00:02**

The house always feels bigger at night. Bigger, and scarier; in short, deeply unsettling.

Every single time Lucas finds himself walking through the sunbathed rooms during the day, it’s hard to remember how creepy they can be, once night takes over — like a constant chill running up his spine. A paralyzing feeling of dread and panic, for every hardwood surface creaking.

Padding in the dark with Eliott is a whole different thing in itself. The feeling of Eliott’s hand in his own should probably make him feel better, bolder, and it would, in literally any other place — any other house, one that doesn’t involve his family and the nagging fear of being busted. His fingers tighten around his phone, and he throws a look behind his shoulder, pointing at the staircase with the beam of his flashlight.

“Don’t trip,” Lucas whispers, so quietly he’s afraid Eliott hasn’t heard him at first, but then he nods, awfully serious, and Lucas is tempted to start laughing at the absurdity of it all — except it’s not absurd, it’s just his life.

They climb up the stairs, slowly, as focused as two people climbing up Mount Everest, and once they reach the top, Lucas points to the right with his flashlight; Eliott steals a glance or two at a few framed pictures when they take left. His bedroom is located on the left, a former guest bedroom they tried to make a little bit warmer and cozier when the family moved back to Saint-A permanently a couple of years ago — but to him it’s still just that, a bedroom, never quite his own.

He pushes the door open, letting Eliott step in before he does, and the moment they both cross the threshold, he feels himself relax instantly, easing the door shut as he tries to pull himself back together. In some other universe they probably met in England, in the same noisy kind of club, and Lucas was able to drag Eliott back home without feeling like his life is hanging by a thread — but it’s not their reality.

“Are you going to freak out if I lock the door?”, Lucas asks, slowly letting go of the door handle behind him. He nonchalantly rests his back against the door as Eliott glances around the dimly lit bedroom.

He turns back, water droplets falling down from his hair, just in time for Lucas to plaster a smirk on his face. “Are you planning on murdering me?”, Eliott huffs, wiping the water off his cheek with his hand.

It’s going against Lucas’ plans to be fair, because he just had half a mind to lick it off his face, _but oh well_. Lucas shrugs casually. “Nah. But I’m definitely planning to keep you here till I deem myself satisfied.”

Eliott steps back closer to the door, sliding into Lucas’ personal space. “I’m fine with that,” he says, barely even a whisper as he ducks his face and slips a hand behind his back. This idiot is fully aware of what he’s doing, Lucas notices as they make eye contact, and the sound of the door being locked goes straight to Lucas’ groin. “They can fire me I don’t fucking care,” Eliott whispers again, leaning closer and closer, until his nose brushes Lucas’ cheekbone.

He knows he’s supposed to feel sorry for the rain, and for the fact that Eliott is drenched at this point, and on some level he _does_ , but he can’t find it in himself to regret it — not with the fucking sight of it all. Lucas huffs a little, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pulls him in for a kiss. His fingers tangle into the wet strands, hovering above wet skin as he brushes across his neck, his cheek, Eliott’s cold lips slowly warming up under Lucas’.

“Take these off,” he mumbles, not even parting a millimeter as he tugs at Eliott’s hoodie.

It sends a shiver down Eliott’s body, and he feels it run its course under his fingertips, goosebumps rising across his skin. He fucking loves it. He loves how he just _knows_ Eliott is weak for him — he loves knowing he has such an effect on him, because every single one of Eliott’s glances is enough to spark a fire inside him in return.

It takes Eliott an extra handful of seconds before he agrees to move, not before he’s sucked on Lucas’ bottom lip enthusiastically. “Wanna help?”, he mutters, breaking apart with a cheeky grin before taking a step back.

Lucas finds himself smirking back. “If I want your dick inside me one way or another, guess I’ll have to,” he says, heaving a sigh in mock annoyance.

Eliott blinks, and Lucas is sure he sees his cheeks darkening a little. _Sweet_. But he’s not really in the right headspace to start fawning over him; there’s this part of his brain that keeps reminding him he’s going to lose his mind if he has to go through another day without touching him every fucking where.

He tries to remain calm and collected.

_Boy does he try_.

He’s still trying when he reaches for Eliott’s pants. Still trying when he helps him out of his hoodie, and his tee-shirt, still trying when he pulls him closer to the bed, drinking in the sight of Eliott’s lean body and his dark underwear.

_Fuck those boxers_.

For the past two days he hasn’t been able to think about anything else — the goddamn missed opportunity from the pool. And he’s not going to let that happen again, not a fucking chance. Eliott’s eyes are glued to his as he pushes his own underwear down, unwavering, and they are almost enough for Lucas to forget what’s happening down. Those eyes — they could make him do anything, literally. Piercing and soft at the same time, magnetic in a way you can never just look once and move on.

Lucas feels a sigh escape from his lips, and he pulls Eliott in. “Fuck look at you,” he breathes out, brushing their lips together. _So fucking beautiful_.

Eliott groans against his mouth, and Lucas smiles to himself when he feels his hands clinging to his underwear, pulling it down slowly while trailing kisses along his jawline. He pushes Eliott on the bed, discarding his boxers, then his tee-shirt; he climbs on the mattress too, slowly crawling on top of him, heart pounding in his chest at the sight of Eliott’s wild eyes and red-bitten lips.

“I swear I was starting to think I had made it all up,” Eliott whispers with a breathy laugh, and Lucas lets out a sigh of near-relief when his hands brush up his sides, sliding up his back as he settles on top of him.

He starts nibbling at Eliott’s jawline. “What?”

Eliott’s breath catches in his throat, and if Lucas wasn’t hard enough already it definitely does a good job at making all the remaining blood draw south. “You,” Eliott says, voice sounding a little strained, and the way he arches his back makes him press harder against Lucas’ stomach. “Fuck, _you_ Lucas,” he pants. “I just want you so fucking bad I-”

“Well I’m here,” Lucas replies, voice rough but soothing as he cages Eliott’s head with his arms, mouth ghosting above Eliott’s lips, hips pressing down. “But let me work my magic for now.”

Eliott lets out a desperate groan, lifting his head off the pillow to close the gap between them. Lucas kisses back, licking into Eliott’s mouth, his skin burning under Eliott’s fingertips as his hands keep wandering wherever they can reach. It takes Lucas a lot to be able to focus back — not that he’s afraid to come untouched so easily, but he’d hate for Eliott to.

He breaks the kiss with a soft lick along Eliott’s bottom lip, then he starts trailing his lips down his jawline, his neck, following the hard planes of his chest, tongue teasing where his teeth can’t leave marks. Eliott’s breath grows louder in the silent room, getting imperceptibly raspier as Lucas trails further and further down, and he allows himself a small treat on the way. He lets his teeth sink into the skin of Eliott’s thigh, drawing a soft moan from Eliott as he soothes the fresh, rosy bruise with soft licks.

“Lucas,” Eliott whispers, and Lucas hums in response, nuzzling along his inner thigh.

He can feel Eliott trembling under him, how hard he is for him. Placing a hand firmly on Eliott’s hip to pin him in place, he finally lowers himself over his erection. A sound escapes Eliott’s mouth, not quite a moan, the moment Lucas’ lips hover along the underside of his shaft, then his tongue teases the slit, licking the precum dripping with kitten licks.

“Oh fucking God,” Eliott breathes out, a hand flying to his mouth to stifle his moan.

Lucas lets out a low, appreciative rumble, and Eliott’s body tenses under him like he just gave him an electric shock. It’s maddening, knowing he has so much effect on him. How sensitive he’s under his touch. Finally he takes him in his mouth, a hand wrapping around the base, and Eliott lets out a string of curses under his breath as Lucas swallows him down, bit by bit.

Eliott brings his hand on the back of Lucas’ head, tangling in his hair.

Swirling his tongue over the head of Eliott’s cock, Lucas looks up through his eyelashes, eyes roaming appreciatively over Eliott’s flushed cheeks, his heaving chest. This is how he’s wanted him since the first glance. This tall, beautiful guy, with his too intense stares and messy hair — except that Eliott is no longer some cute guy met in a club he wanted to push against the wall and sink on his knees for. Now he’s that guy working on the domaine, with a name, and a life.

And _boy_ it gets him going.

“Fuck, Lucas,” Eliott gasps, back arching up, just as Lucas hollows his cheeks, bobbing his head up and down.

He closes his eyes, focusing on it, on the moment — **on** the weight of Eliott on his tongue, on the taste of him, on everything that makes Eliott _Eliott_ and that makes this instant theirs. Through his hazy brain, he can feel and hear Eliott’s attempts to stay quiet; he hears it in the changes of his breathing, in the way his muscles constrict, in the way his fingers massage his scalp, and it makes Lucas’ heart thrum faster in his chest.

“L-Lucas,” Eliott sucks in a deep breath, hand tightening in his hair. “I’m g-gonna come-”

Lucas lets go of Eliott’s hip, sliding his hand higher, soothing his side with his thumb in quiet reassurance, but he’s not sure Eliott gets the memo. It takes him only a few more seconds before his body jerks, orgasm ripped from him as warm spurts fill Lucas’ mouth. Lucas holds him in place through his release, licking him clean after Eliott’s body goes taut. A quiet whine escapes Eliott’s lips when it becomes too much, and Lucas lets go of him, wiping his chin where some drool has dribbled down in the process.

The bedroom goes back to silent after a moment, and Lucas takes a few seconds to snap out of it before looking back up to meet Eliott’s eyes.

“C’mere,” Eliott whispers softly, chest still heaving, and he pulls him back up.

Lucas’ first move when he settles back at Eliott’s level is to kiss him, pushing his tongue into his mouth to let him taste himself, and Eliott’s arms wrap around his frame. It’s slower than before, softer maybe even. When they break apart, he props himself up on an elbow on the second pillow, letting his fingers graze over Eliott’s chest. “Feeling better?”, he asks offhandedly, smirking a little.

Eliott huffs and turns his face away, biting back a smile. “Go ahead, be fucking cocky.”

Lucas lets out a quiet chuckle, reaching for his chin. “I’m good at what I do, is all.” He pecks him on the lips a few times, thumb stroking Eliott’s flushed cheek.

Eliott hums, and it goes from skeptical to appreciative as Lucas’ fingers wander in his damp hair. “Does that mean you’re gonna kick me out now?”

“Did you see me unlock the door?”, Lucas cocks an eyebrow pointedly. “Then it means I’m not deeming myself satisfied just yet.”

The understatement of the year. If it wasn’t for Eliott having to work on the domaine, he’d keep him here for a sex marathon — that’s just how much this boy does to him. It should be scary, to realize that. To realize how much in one week and only a handful of conversations together, he’s maybe, perhaps, a bit gone for him already.

Scary. But exciting.

It’s something warm and soothing, trapped inside his chest — a secret he doesn’t have to share with anyone, not even Eliott, not just yet.

Completely oblivious to his inner monologue, Eliott turns onto his side, his hand caressing Lucas’ side as he pushes him slowly onto his back. “What a coincidence, I’d be more than happy to return the favor.”

His lips brush against Lucas’, teasingly switching angle as Lucas tries to close the gap between them to no avail. He pulls away a little, planting his eyes into Eliott’s, whose face breaks into a blinding smile. A chuckle escapes his lips and Lucas huffs, playfully messing his hair. “How much energy are you planning on using for that?”

Eliott makes a face in mock-offense. “Doubting my stamina? _You_ ’re the old one.”

He rolls his eyes. Sure, three years is _such_ an age gap. Lucas lets his hands run up and down Eliott’s spine, enjoying the way Eliott’s body reacts under the touch — the small shiver, the goosebumps, the barely noticeable way his breath catches for a split second. “I know you’ve had a rough week and the best blowjob of your life,” Lucas says casually. “Takes a toll on any stamina.”

Eliott huffs a chuckle, warm and rough, and Lucas tries to remember, he really does, but he can’t recall the last time he laughed in bed with someone. That’s not to say he had fundamentally bad experiences or bad relationships, if anyone can call them that, but that’s different.

And truth is, he doesn’t know what to do with this.

“You’re so full of yourself,” Eliott says, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Lucas muses. He brings his hand to Eliott’s face, tracing the edge of his cheekbone from his fingers. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know why he said that aloud, it’s not like he _meant_ to do that, but still Eliott grins, that bright, honest grin, that splits his face in two and lights up his eyes — the one that makes Lucas so fucking weak for him.

Lucas pulls him in for another kiss, fingers digging into his damp hair, and he can feel himself hardening against Eliott; it’s not long before Eliott’s hand trails down, digging into the flesh of his thigh.

“What do you want?”, Eliott whispers, breaking apart long enough to utter the few magical words against Lucas’ mouth.

“Told you already. You, inside of me.” The smirk on his face disappears when Eliott swallows noticeably, and Lucas pushes himself up on an elbow, Eliott leaning back a little. “Am I too forward?”

Shit. He doesn’t even know exactly how experienced Eliott is in the end, maybe he should fucking slam the brakes on that one. 

But Eliott shakes his head. “Oh god, no. Fuck,” he says hastily, letting out a breathy laugh, and Lucas feels himself relax in his arms. “Do you have lube anywhere?”

“Yeah in the draw-” He doesn’t even finish his sentence, Eliott’s long arm already reaching for the bedside table. Predictably, the only things that are there are tissues, a phone charger, and a box or two of paracetamol for when Lucas is too lazy to go downstairs. Eliott’s brow furrows and Lucas smirks, hands trailing up Eliott’s shoulders to push him off of him slowly. “Hold on tiger, not this one.”

He rolls off the bed, and moves over to a six-drawer dresser standing next to the door. He can feel Eliott’s eyes on him as he crouches down to rummage through a stash of winter clothes he hasn’t worn in a while. His mother hasn’t had the time, and much less the thought, to go through his stuff behind his back in at least a decade, he’s positive about that, but old habits die hard and he’s never really updated his hiding spots ever since he moved abroad.

“Smart,” Eliott says, as Lucas moves back to bed with a bottle of lube and a condom, and Lucas snorts.

“Always.”

The look in Eliott’s eyes is enough to make a shiver run up his spine. Make him want to drop all kinds of pretense. _Hey, you’re my teenage fantasy come to life and I need you to fuck me senseless, thanks._ But even then, even when he crawls back in bed with Eliott, even when he sighs against Eliott’s lips as they rearrange themselves, even when Eliott pushes him onto his back, he knows it’s not fair to call him a fantasy.

The cap of the lube echoes in the silent bedroom, a moment before he feels Eliott’s hand reaching between his thighs, and perhaps he should tell him that he already touched himself in the shower earlier, when he was still trying to come up with reasons why bringing him into this house is suicidal, but he craves Eliott’s touch more than his next breath in this very moment. If Eliott notices, he doesn’t say anything, kissing him deeply, chasing his mouth whenever Lucas lets out quiet groans and gasps, with each added finger, each tentative angle. 

“I’m good baby,” Lucas pants, voice rough even to his own ears, pet name slipping easily on his tongue. _Been for a while_. He blindly reaches for the condom, fumbling a little before his fingers meet foil paper next to a pillow.

It goes fast after that — blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of fast. Maybe Lucas is to blame for that. Just a little. He only has Eliott to himself for a little while, not even a full night, he’s not going to lose any more time than necessary, and it’s certainly not Eliott’s little smirk when Lucas swiftly rips the foil paper open that’s going to make him change his mind.

“I’m gonna wipe that smirk off your face,” he huffs, pushing Eliott onto his back.

“What did I do now?”, he protests, laughing quietly, but it doesn’t last long — because then Lucas is straddling him, and the order, he thinks, is restored, as Eliott’s laughter dies down. “That’s not fair.”

“All’s fair,” Lucas singsongs, pulling him up in a sitting position before reaching behind him for Eliott’s cock. He guides the tip to his entrance, Eliott gasping as Lucas presses himself back down and starts sinking down on him.

He has no other choice than to go slow, but fuck it’s agonizing. Eliott’s fingers cling to his sides, and Lucas’ thighs are trembling as he lowers himself down, taking more and more of Eliott inside of him. His mouth has gone slack, and he lets out a shivering breath when Eliott’s hand runs up and down his spine, warm and soothing and slightly trembling.

“Seeing something you like?”, Lucas rasps out, voice strained with effort, as he meets Eliott’s heavy-lidded eyes.

“You,” Eliott whispers, and his brutal honesty makes Lucas flinch.

His fingers leave Eliott’s shoulder to cup the back of his head, digging into his messy strands as he brings their foreheads together. His breathing hitches a little as he starts grinding his hips. It’s not that he’s missed this, but like-

_Oh God._

Fuck that shit. Yes, he’s fucking missed it. _Sue him_.

Clinging back onto Eliott’s shoulders for support, he adjusts his position a little before diving into an open-mouthed kiss — sloppy, a tad desperate, he doesn’t really care if they mostly share oxygen and lap at each other’s mouth more than they kiss. He sinks back down onto Eliott, making him break the kiss in a gasp as his fingers dig into Lucas’ hips.

With Eliott’s arms wrapped tightly around his frame, Lucas searches a different angle, tilting his hips until Eliott’s cock drags against his prostate; a husky moan escapes Lucas’ mouth, filling the room for a brief moment. _Holy fuck_. His head starts spinning, too many sensations flooding his brain at once, and he has to bury his face in Eliott’s neck to keep himself as reasonably quiet as he can. Eliott thrusts up, meeting him halfway, and Lucas whimpers into his neck.

Too overwhelming, too much of Eliott, too little air in his lungs-

He can feel himself already dangerously close, too fast, _way_ too fast, faster than he’d want it — that’s what he gets for putting Eliott’s need for release first. With as much resolve as he can possibly muster, he tries to push it down, making his body clench around Eliott’s length in a desperate attempt to make it last only a few moments longer, but it’s in vain. His movements grow slower and more sluggish as his thighs start aching, smearing precome on Eliott’s abs every time Eliott thrusts up.

“Lu- Lucas,” Eliott pants, voice strained, somewhat broken.

Lucas can’t tell if anything was supposed to follow, but with trembling hands he cups Eliott’s face, bringing their lips together in a desperate kiss. He lets him swallow his whimper as he drops himself back down, hard, his cock slamming against his prostate making all of his nerve endings light up.

“Oh fu- _uck_ ,” Lucas lets out, voice breaking as his mouth slips away from Eliott’s, slumping a little bit more against his chest. He can feel his orgasm building up, his head spinning with want and need-

His breath catches in his throat as the room sways around them, too fast for him to process. Next thing he knows, his back hits the mattress with a quiet thump, Eliott’s hand slipping from underneath his back to hook his legs around his waist.

_Oh_. Oh fuck. He sucks on a breath, back arching as Eliott adjusts himself, pushing back inside of him. Lucas’ hazy eyes roam over his face while he does so. The sharp edge of his cheekbones, the soft flush on his cheeks, his hair sticking to his temples, the look of quiet resolution that would be embarrassing on anybody else — yet it only makes Lucas feel more.

He likes being bossy; he knows what he wants, and how he wants it. It’s never a problem for him to take the lead in bed. But he also likes his men with a bit of backbone and Eliott-

_Fucking hell_ , Lucas thinks, as Eliott’s thrusts grow sharper, now relentlessly hitting his prostate and pushing him up the bed in rhythm. That guy could easily be everything in one. Soft yet cheeky. Gentle yet fun. Doesn’t seem to mind leaving Lucas in charge but not afraid of stepping up. He has barely finished articulating that thought when Eliott reaches between them to jerk him off, sloppily and lazily.

“C’mon,” Eliott breathes out against his temple. “I’ve got you.”

It shouldn’t be so easy. _It shouldn’t be_. And yet. Just a few more strokes, Eliott’s raspy voice, and Lucas’ body shudders, surrendering under Eliott’s touch as his vision goes white and his back arches up. His eyes flutter shut as the aftershocks ripple through him, Eliott chasing his own release with near-stubbornness. It’s not long before his body tenses, and that he buries his face into Lucas’ neck as he comes.

Time is a bit of a weird concept after that. Reality feels distant and blurry; he doesn’t know how long they stay like that, tangled into each other’s limbs, breathing eventually slowing down as they come down from their high in silence. Eliott shuffles on the bed, then stands up on his feet to dispose of the condom in the trashcan under Lucas’ empty desk; Lucas lets his eyes lazily roam over his body, before he musters enough courage to get up as well.

He wobbles his way to the en-suite bathroom, flipping the light on to grab a washcloth and do the bare minimum of cleaning. It’s not quite 1, and Eliott is supposed to be ready to work in less than 6h; he probably did the same math in his head, because when Lucas comes back to the bedroom, Eliott is staring thoughtfully at his clothes thrown haphazardly on the ground.

Outside the rain is still pouring, whipping against the electric shutter.

“It’s okay,” Lucas whispers, driving Eliott’s attention back on him as he climbs back into bed. “You can sleep here.”

“I really don’t want to cause any trouble,” he says, twisting his mouth bashfully.

Lucas pulls him down into his arms. “Let me worry about that.”

Eliott huffs quietly, but eventually settles in his arms. He nuzzles into his chest, humming quietly, and Lucas starts threading his fingers through his hair until his breathing slowly evens out.

**DIMANCHE, 09:43**

**DIMANCHE, 09:49**

It’s loud voices coming from down the stairs that decide against him ultimately going back to sleep.

That in itself is rare enough to be worth mentioning; in general his room is far enough from the kitchen and the staircase for his closed door to shut down the rest of the world. But apparently, not today.

He’s been drifting in and out of sleep ever since he walked Eliott down the stairs, at the crack of dawn, letting go of him in the chilly morning light right after one last hurried kiss, and ever since he’s occasionally been staring at the pillow and the empty spot next to him until sleep takes over every now and then.

He doesn’t want to go back to that part of reality that sucks so much.

Almost despite himself, he realizes he’s listening, his brain providing him with the questions and the answers. He’s sure he can hear Charles being his usual nuisance self, but even he can’t just fight with himself, so he guesses Michel must be here too. There isn’t anyone on this goddamn domaine that can quite get under his cousin’s skin the way the old _chef de culture_ does, and Lucas can try and argue with himself that there’s absolutely no correlation between that and Lucas liking the old man so much, he can’t quite deny there might be some truth in it.

With a humph he pulls himself up into a sitting position, running his hand through his hair messed up beyond repair, and eventually drags himself out of bed and into the shower. So far there’s no mark he can’t explain, only a few red spots that don’t quite qualify as anything in particular, and if he feels sore in all the right places, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

The argument is still going strong when he pads down the stairs and comes near the kitchen — which, all in all, isn’t all that different from what he’s used to see happening around here. Usually they just choose to do that in his mom’s office, but he guesses Sunday calls for a change of scenery.

He catches the conversation when Charles is mid-sentence, and Lucas listens from his blind spot outside. “-ckers, we wouldn’t be so late in the season and the goddamn weather wouldn’t be a problem,” his cousin is saying, practically yelling.

Lucas almost rolls his eyes. Charles versus the pickers. The good, old, fucking debate.

“And you would have everything done and sealed by mid-august?”, Michel sneers. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about! Finishing harvest before August! Never seen this before!”

“Not every year is the same,” Charles grits out. “I’m not here to watch the sky change colors and smell the grass or whatever bullshit people like to make up to pretend they know how the weather’s gonna change, there’s a thing called monthly forecast, and people with actual degrees who know about all of that-”

“Oh, yes, _sure_ ,” Michel cuts him off, “they can’t even plan the weather two days in advance and you’re talking about _monthly_ forecast? Kid if we were working with monthly forecast we wouldn’t be able to get a single thing done.”

Lucas bites down onto his bottom lip. He can literally picture the colors draining from Charles’ face — assuming they haven’t already. If you so much as listened to him, the guy was born before his mother and there’s nothing he hates more than to be babied by anyone. Frankly? Lucas hates it too. But the entertainment is worth a bit of hypocrisy, and it’s Charles’ penance for acting like an entitled douchebag with people who know better.

“So what now? _Uh_? The rain from the past few days is already starting to make the grapes rot over to Montilliac!”

“Then we will change the schedule and send a team work over there today to limit the risks,” his mom intervenes. She sounds a little farther, like she’s standing against the kitchen elements. She has that habit of never sitting down for breakfast, always sipping on her tea while standing. “Where were you headed?”

“The parcels next to Bouchard’s,” Michel replies stiffly. Lucas has no trouble imagining him with his arms crossed over his chest, feet resolutely planted in the ground like every time Charles was being a pain in his ass.

“Those will have to wait for the time being,” his mom says again. There’s a clinking sound of a spoon hitting the side of a tea mug. “It’s high on the slope it should be fine even if it rains.”

Michel lets out a grumpy grunt, obviously not happy about the way the conversation went down. “They’re already working, but I’ll tell Thierry to move the team over there.” The heavy, slightly stomping footsteps of Michel echo as he crosses the room, and Lucas guesses he’s heading for the kitchen backdoor before he hears it open and shut itself behind the man.

“It wouldn’t be happening if we had the mechanic resources to make do _without_ the pickers,” Charles fumes as soon as the _chef de culture_ is gone. “We’re twenty years behind on 75% of the _châteaux_ in the region.”

“You know I can’t do that, Charles,” his mother replies, far more patiently than she usually is with Lucas. “ _Château Saint-Aignan_ is a brand. Our reds fall under the appellation. This doesn’t just end with a bad year and a little too much-”

_Okay I’m done_.

Lucas pulls himself away from his hidden spot and strolls in the kitchen, too bored to wait any longer for them to leave. His entrance cuts his mother in her tracks and two pairs of eyes snap onto him as he makes his way inside. “Oh, hi. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Lucas drawls, motioning for the coffee maker. “Everyone’s on edge today.”

“Not any more than any other day,” Charles bites back briskly. “You’re just up early for once.”

Lucas turns to him, unimpressed, and picks a coffee pod on the counter. “It’s Sunday.” And contrary to Charles he’s not being paid to work during his vacations, he almost says, but he doesn’t. He goes back to the coffee machine instead and hits the button.

There’s a huff behind him, disdainful enough to let him know right away it came from his oh-so-loving cousin. “I’ll see you later, Manon’s waiting for me,” he says.

Lucas digs out his phone to avoid rolling his eyes.

Manon is the only thing he likes about Charles.

Which is funny, in a way, because he met her first — back in London, back when he was a little Frenchie lost in a big, big business school, back when he thought he could escape Saint A. They hit it off right away, and before he knew it she had become one of his closest friends. Well. Until Charles dropped by in London one weekend, unannounced, only to sweep Manon off her feet. The following semester, Manon had moved back to France to be with him, and ever since Lucas has been swallowing down all the bitterness of being left behind, for none other than the one person who’s responsible for at least 65% of his self-hatred.

Without paying much attention he opens Instagram, opting to scroll down his feed while his coffee is brewing. His eyes hover above Eliott’s face in the top corner of the screen, infuriatingly beautiful on his profile picture, and all of a sudden, there’s a knife digging into his stomach.

“Where’s the team of pickers headed now?”, he asks, after a moment of silence.

His mother considers him with a cocked eyebrow as she puts her tea mug in the sink. “So getting involved in the family business is too much but eavesdropping is fine?”

Lucas shrugs. “They were screaming. Hard to miss.”

His mom hums, always sounding vaguely uninterested. She has that in common with Charles. Considering they aren’t even related by blood, it’s positively striking, the number of similar traits they share. Lucas tries to remember if it’s an attitude his cousin had, before he started living here, but it’s so far away he can’t quite reach any satisfying conclusion. “Michel is going to move them over to Montilliac.”

“I think I’ll drop by. Maybe help them out,” Lucas says with a casual shrug.

He knows he shouldn’t be forcing his luck too much and avoid being seen too often around Eliott — but right now he just wants to see him, even from afar. There’s something about him that makes Lucas feel calm and he could really use it at the moment.

“Lucas, if you want to help out anyone maybe it would be the moment for you to seriously consider your studies and get your diploma,” his mother says stiffly.

He tightens his jawline. “Stop acting like I took a year off,” he retorts stubbornly. “I was offered a one-year course and I picked it. I don’t see how that could be a problem for me to have one more thing to put on my resume.”

It’s old news she’s pissy about it — simply because it added an extra year to his MBA program, she keeps acting like he had to retake a year when he’s been working his ass off all along.

“Piano isn’t the kind of thing people are looking for, I think we already established that before,” she replies coolly on her way out. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do, since you’re not willing to get involved with the part of the job that doesn’t require you parading around.”

He bites his tongue hard not to reply. Maybe parading around wouldn’t be his only option if there was any room left for him somewhere else, he thinks bitterly as he exits Instagram to fire a text to Baz.

**DIMANCHE, 10:18**

**DIMANCHE, 21:22**

**LUNDI, 11:38**

In the end, there was no Sunday grape-picking session for him, mostly because Basile had other plans — which is probably not so bad, all in all, because it keeps raining intermittently throughout the day.

As far as he can remember, Baz has always been on the frontline with each and every harvest, and growing up hasn’t changed him one bit in that regard. He’s still overexcited with the prospect of working on the domaine and spending some time with his Pop, and if Lucas has to be absolutely honest about it, he kind of envies him for it — although he would surely die before admitting it aloud. Not just the whole grandfather thing, considering he has long made peace with that part of his life, but more about the excitement of truly, blindly, almost naively enjoying what he’s doing.

If Lucas doesn’t mind helping out in the vines, it’s always driven by an ulterior motive. Feeling less lonely, being surrounded by people who expect very little, if anything at all, from him, escaping his mother and Charles for a few hours. And now Eliott. Objectively he _can_ just stroll in the parcel, grab a bucket, and start working with the pickers like it’s nobody’s business. Michel knows he likes to do that from time to time, and he wouldn’t bring it up to his mother (or to anybody else for that matter), but he doesn’t want to bring too much attention on him. Over the years he’s managed to put his clinginess and need for some fresh air on Basile’s enthusiasm to avoid anyone asking anything he can’t reply with a huff and a casual ‘it’s Baz, you know how he is’.

But without him around, it’s his best excuse out the window; in the end he spent a good portion of his Sunday trying to slip out of the radars, while Eliott is held hostage by his friends — or something similar.

It’s about as fun as you might expect it, and tragically enough Monday starts off in the same manner.

“Lucas, I need you to watch the phone while I’m gone,” his mother said, as soon as he headed downstairs for breakfast.

The first thing that came to his mind was _what the fucking fuck_ , and it must have showed, because she vaguely muttered something about New Zealand and a sale and a bank appointment she had with Charles somewhere, but he didn’t care quite enough to ask anything else, assuming she’d have taken the time to answer him with patience. Before he had even been able to sip on his coffee she was gone and the car was already driving off.

That’s how he finds himself dying of boredom in his mother’s office, one sad August morning. They live in the world of technology and cellphones, and he can’t quite understand why his mother wouldn’t be able take five from whatever appointment she’s got going on for that _oh so important call_ , let alone what he’s supposed to say if he did end up receiving that stupid phonecall, yet here he is. Spinning on the chair office chair like he’s seven all over again, occasionally bored enough to go through a drawer or two, flicking through some paper piled up on the desk.

It’s weird to think that this office has been his grandfather’s not so long ago. Not that it has changed much; the man had a thing for storing and stocking, which meant everything related to the domaine has always been impeccably and meticulously sorted with color-codded folders, occupying the bigger part of the shelving units lined up against two of the four walls — with an extra care that’s borderline OCD. But the personal touches have been removed, aside from a picture on the wall where he was posing after a harvest in the 80s or the 90s; Lucas can remember that there was a whole bunch of hunting pictures, of his dad when he was maybe fourteen, holding a rifle that seemed weirdly big for his still boyish frame, of his grandfather’s long-dead hunting dogs, and a whole bunch of tractors and various views of the domaine through the decades. His aunt Sandra, Charles’ mom, was posing on one of the removed pictures but he can’t remember what she was doing.

He’s still busy examining a part of the wall, trying to remember what photo frame used to occupy the faint yellow spot when someone knocks at the door, startling him a little in the glaring contest he’s busy having with his memory — only for his eyes to meet Eliott’s.

“What are you doing here?”, he asks, grinning almost despite himself, spinning around on the chair. He didn’t expect him to even be able to check his phone more than twice throughout the whole morning, let alone to catch a glimpse of him.

Eliott steps inside and shuts the door behind himself. “Mr. Savary sent me to bring back a set of keys.”

Lucas leaves his seat, rounding the desk. “He doesn’t trust _just_ anybody, you must have really charmed him.”

Eliott cocks an eyebrow, padding closer, but the little twinkle of mischief in his eyes doesn’t match the deadpan. “Him too?”

Lucas hums in response, leaning back against the desk casually. “I hope you don’t do with-”

Eliott’s face crumples into a disgusted frown before he even manages to utter the last few words, and he lets out a huff as he shakes his head. “Oh my god, shut up, right now. That’s gross.”

“You started it,” Lucas laughs, and he reaches out to pull Eliott closer, until he steps in-between his stretched out legs.

“ _You_ started it,” Eliott protests.

Lucas looks up with a smirk that makes Eliott chuckle. There’s one second of nothing, a short eye contact, perhaps a bit of a reassurance, before Eliott leans down and presses a kiss onto Lucas’ lips. Lucas smiles against his mouth, humming softly as Eliott pecks him a couple of times more. An arm slides behind Lucas’ neck, craning his face up a little bit more; in the short span of time they’ve known each other, Lucas has decided he likes the gesture. He doesn’t know what this is about, if it’s the thought of Eliott getting a little bolder with him that gets him going or if it’s because it’s a very sweet gesture overall, but it doesn’t matter much.

The kiss stretches out a little bit longer, enough for Lucas’ hands to get a bit clingier as they fist into Eliott’s shirt, and as soon as he feels Eliott’s lips parting he pushes his tongue inside of his mouth to deepen the kiss. For a blissful moment he forgets where he is; he forgets that they’re in an office, that he’s trapped into this place, and that it’s not Eliott’s sole purpose in life to kiss him until he has no oxygen left in his lungs.

When they break apart, Eliott brushes his nose against Lucas’.

“I thought about you last night,” he whispers. “Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Lucas smirks. “Good. Don’t.”

It earns him a huff, and Eliott’s arm slips away from behind his neck, his hands catching Lucas’. “We’ve finished the parcel so it means my shift’s over,” he says, imperceptibly pulling him forward, “maybe we can spend some time together?”

Lucas plants his feet in the ground. “Sadly mine isn’t.” It’s the number 1 disadvantage of not having a contract — no work hours for him. He twists his mouth to make his point across and Eliott pouts, disappointed. Not for the first time that day, Lucas finds himself cursing against his mother.

It feels a lot like the universe is testing his patience and he’s not a huge fan.

He gives a gentle squeeze to Eliott’s hand. “Sorry, baby. We can try to catch up later?”

Assuming his friends don’t drag him away again, he almost says, but he doesn’t want Eliott to think he’s acting clingy. If he wants to go out with his friends, good for him.

“So you can’t leave this office?,” he insists. “Even for, like, thirty minutes?”

Lucas shakes his head and gives a small shrug. “It’s fine, I heard patience is a virtue.”

Eliott doesn’t look very convinced, his expression becoming unreadable as he seems to ponder his next move. Which one? He doesn’t know how there can possibly be one, but there’s a part — fine, alright, a big, big part — that doesn’t want him to leave just yet. Eliott steps back closer, threading their fingers together.

“What if we’re very quiet?”, he asks, after a short silence. “And very, very discreet?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Eliott, I’m serious. I can’t leave.”

“I’ve never said we had to leave.”

It suddenly occurs to Lucas that he closed the door behind himself when he walked in; he doesn’t think Eliott planned it all from the beginning, but he can’t rule out his horny subconscious thinking for him.

_I can’t,_ is the first thing he thinks. _We can’t do that._

Eliott seems very set on making him change his silent decision. “You said you wanted to fuck my mouth, remember?”

Lucas presses his lips together, trying to keep his mind on tracks. In any other situation, he’d have upped that game really fast. Eliott wants to play? He’d have played along. But now isn’t the right moment for fooling around, and so he finds himself deflecting a little. “What happened to the guy who blushed when I said I wanted his dick inside of me?”, he snorts.

“I didn’t blush,” Eliott bites back.

“You totally did,” he huffs. It earns him an eyeroll. “Sorry for being the boring voice of reason.”

Eliott chews on his bottom lip. “It’s fine,” he says and Lucas is surprised at the casualness of his answer. “As long as you kiss me.”

Lucas hums, hooking his arms behind Eliott’s neck. “That we can do.”

He pulls him down for a kiss, swallowing a content hum from him, and Eliott kisses him back instantly, shuffling a little bit closer. Lucas focuses on their mouths moving together, on Eliott’s tongue chasing his own, and he almost doesn’t notice how much he’s clinging onto Eliott until he’s practically entirely draped around him, Eliott crowding him against the desk — but still it’s not enough, and Lucas breaks the kiss with a groan.

“You did it on purpose,” Lucas mumbles against Eliott’s shoulder, absolutely, a hundred percent sure Eliott can very well feel he’s slowly getting hard.

Eliott’s lips trails away, kissing down Lucas’ neck. “Maybe…”

Lucas’ only response is another groan, but the more he tries to will himself into cooling down, the less possible Eliott’s smell makes it. _Fucking hell_. This is his own fault. He dug his own grave the moment he walked up to him at the bar last week; he fucking knew this wouldn’t end up with just a nice little chat and now here he is.

“Oka- Fuck, yeah, okay,” Lucas breathes out, and it doesn’t quite come to his mind that Eliott might not have followed his train of thoughts — it doesn’t matter much anyway, because next thing he knows, Eliott is parting away, reaching down to pull Lucas’ shorts down.

Lucas’ stomach starts sparking up with excitement, and he lets out a breathy grunt as he feels Eliott’s hand palming his semi through his boxers. On their own accord, his hips buck upward, chasing the pressure of Eliott’s warm hand. Eliott keeps nuzzling against his neck, trailing a few more kisses up along his jawline, and Lucas briefly tries to imagine what it’d feel like, if he could allow him to mark him.

Slowly, Eliott lowers himself in-between Lucas’ legs.

His hand gets burning against Lucas’ skin, when he pushes his shirt up, lips dragging down across his chest, tongue getting teasing as it hovers above his happy-trail. “Eliott,” he groans. He refuses to beg, not just yet — after all he still has some dignity left —, and although he wants more than anything else to get lost enough to forget about the rest of the world, they’re still on a very tight schedule at the moment, and teasing isn’t exactly on the table.

Eliott’s response is to look up, pressing another kiss onto Lucas’ stomach as he watches him through his eyelashes. Swallowing to himself, Lucas lets out a small huff, sounding perhaps a little breathy as he slumps back against the desk a bit more. Eliott’s fingers cling to the waistband of his underwear and pull it down, quickly moving to wrap around Lucas’ length, and just like that his heart jumps in his chest, bouncing against his ribcage.

Eliott gives a few more strokes to get him fully hard, and Lucas’ fingers fumble for something to hold onto. In the span of a second, he’s brought back to the night before, his body aching for his touch, flinching under Eliott’s invisible mouth, brought back to how much he’s been craving it all as Eliott give a tentative lick along his shaft. He almost thought about calling him again — almost, not quite. But truth is _, he deserves this_. He’s denied himself another night with the boy he likes just because he’s afraid to get too comfortable, just because he’s afraid of not being careful enough, but he can allow himself this, if only for a few minutes.

_Just this time_.

Everything melts in the background. His hatred for this place, his messed-up family, his soul-crushing desire to leave and never come back, the constant fear, constant stress, constant rebuffing — it all fades out with the warmth of Eliott’s mouth, as he swallows him up, his fingers digging into his bare hips. Lucas finds himself engulfed in wet heat, his whole body bucking upwards, a quiet moan escaping past his lips. Eliott’s tongue swirls around the head, and Lucas’ hand shoots up, fingers tangling in Eliott’s hair. He follows the bobbing movements of his head, trying to ground himself — he really does.

But one look down, one look at Eliott on his knees for him, and he feels like his bravado is being crushed to dust.

“Fuck you’re-,” his breath hitches soundly, a gasp echoing in the silent office, “fucking beautiful.”

Eliott’s response is an approving hum that sends shocks and shivers through Lucas’ body, and for a second-

Look. He doesn’t share.

He doesn’t have a weird obsession with sexual records. He doesn’t have a weird virginity kink or whatever. But it does cross his hazy mind, a bit out of the blue, that it doesn’t look like it’s Eliott’s first try. And it shouldn’t, it _shouldn’t_ turn him on so much. Squeezing his eyes shut he pushes the thought away for another time, biting hard onto his bottom his lip to keep himself quiet.

It’s not long before his orgasm crept up, stomach tightening and nerve endings lighting up.

“Eliott- Fuck, _Eliott,_ I’m gonna come,” he rasps out in a breath, and he has barely finished his sentence that he’s coming down Eliott’s throat.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a few blissful seconds, breathing heavy and body shivering as he tries to hold himself together. His breathing is quick and his heart thrums in his chest as Eliott pulls away once he starts squirming. Lucas slumps back against the desk, limbs heavy and light at the same time; Eliott reclines onto his haunches and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

It feels as obscene as it looks infuriatingly alluring.

“That’s not gonna help me keep my mind on tracks,” Lucas says quietly, voice hoarse.

Eliott gives a husky chuckle, his cheeks flushed as he rises up to his feet. Lucas can’t tell if it’s because he just sucked him off or because his own bravery is starting to fluster him. “I’ll keep trying to find a way that actually works.”

Lucas snorts, and he pulls his underwear and his shorts back on with heavy limbs, before Eliott steps closer. His hair is sticking at weird angles where Lucas has tugged at it, and he ducks his face a little for Lucas to try and repair the damage. “Good as new,” he says with a lazy grin, patting Eliott’s cheek.

Eliott smiles, before pressing a kiss onto his lips. He’s barely motioned closer that there’s a faint thud somewhere outside, and it sounds like-

Like a car door slamming shut.

Lucas’ hand falls onto Eliott’s chest, and his head snaps to the side. He’s not proud to say his brain short-circuits for a second. “Are you fucking _kidding_ _me_ ,” he blurts out, parting abruptly. His heart is thrumming for a whole different reason now and it’s a lot less fun.

They exchange a look, Eliott’s eyes widening in panic before he jumps away from Lucas’ personal space.

“Take left,” Lucas hisses, buttoning his shorts, as he hesitates on his way out.

Eliott turns confused eyes on him. “Where to?”

Fucking hell, it’s really his luck that Eliott doesn’t know his way around here. “Just walk past the lab!”

He feels mildly bad the moment Eliott nods and dashes through the door, turning left in a hurry, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it any further because he’s already hearing footsteps outside, shoes crunching on the gravel. He only has the time to round the desk, adjust his tee-shirt and run a hand through his hair for good measure, before Manon slides in the doorway, just where Eliott stood a second ago.

“Hey,” she says with a smile.

“Hi,” he replies, and he clears his throat a little when it comes out a bit too husky. “If you’re looking for Charles, uh, he’s not here.”

He fumbles a little around, rearranging a pen holder here and a few papers there, if only to look busy. Fuck his heart is beating so loud he’s practically sure she can hear it. Manon steps into the office and Lucas discreetly peers at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice anything in particular.

_Calm the fuck down_.

“Oh, no, I know. I was looking for you actually,” she adds quickly, resting an arm nonchalantly on the door handle, but soon her smiles fades away and Lucas feels himself tensing when she starts frowning. “Are you okay? Is this a bad time?”

He blinks. “Yeah, no, I mean, why?”

She ponders her answer, quirking a brow, then eventually steps closer. “You look- Uh. I don’t know, you look a little… on edge.”

_Yes because two minutes ago I had my dick in someone’s mouth._

And not just anyone. Eliott.

It hurts that this is the kind of thing he would have confided to her, back in London. Yann was always too judgy when it came to his hook-ups and his relationships, so Manon had been his favorite wingman for a time. They’d just drink in pubs and together they would shamelessly describe in excruciating details all the things they’d want to do to the cute waiter, that hot customer over there, and the man in his thirties who was most, most definitely staring at Lucas’ ass when he went to hit the restroom.

Sometimes it feels like another life. Or maybe just another Manon.

He’s pretty positive his Manon would have noticed how fucked out he looks right now, but maybe it’s for the best if she doesn’t. Yeah. For the best.

He lets out a laugh that comes out a bit bitter. “Have you met my mother? Have you met my _family_? This entire domaine is driving me up the wall.” No one can say he’s lied if there’s some truth to it. “What do you need?”

She chews onto her bottom lip, shuffling a little on the spot for a handful of seconds. “I have a big favor to ask you,” she eventually says, slowly, with a little wince, and Lucas’ brain goes _uh oh_. That’s rarely good omens. _Very_ rarely. “Sandra is coming to town.”

There’s a silence as Lucas processes the news. There’s only one Sandra he knows of. Only one Sandra that they _both_ know of at least. “Sandra,” he repeats bluntly. “As in, my aunt Sandra.”

“Sandra as in Charles’ mom,” Manon says, twisting her hands together. “She’s arriving tomorrow morning in Bordeaux by the TGV and I-” She pauses and heaves a sigh, hands falling onto her hips. “Alright okay, I need someone to go fetch her.”

“Why doesn’t Charles go?”, Lucas tries. “They see each other three times a year, they probably have a lot to catch up on.”

It’s total bullshit, he knows it. Not the fact that they never see each other, but the fact that they’d want to talk. They aren’t exactly a tight-knit family either — which Lucas relates too on some level —, but that’s the kind of thing that tends to happen when you leave your twelve-year-old son behind to fly around the world with a rich-ass married man.

“He’s got a meeting with a chef in a four-star restaurant in Libourne, it’s been planned for three months he can’t cancel,” she says. “Lucas, I’m begging you, I know she’s my mother-in-law but I’ve met her once and I’m not even sure she remembers me. I can’t spend an entire car-ride with her.” Since he’s still not moving she clasps her hands together. “ _Please_.”

He rolls his eyes and heaves a long, long sigh. “Fine,” he groans, and Manon obviously relaxes. “But you owe me one. Big time.”

“You’re the best,” she grins broadly.

He shakes his head with a huff as she motions to the doorway. _Awesome_. This stay in Saint-A. keeps getting better and better. The one thing he needs at the moment is a good portion of family discomfort as Sandra and Charles and his mother all throw invisible daggers at each other.

“Manon,” he calls out just as she’s about to disappear through the open door. A thought just crept up onto him. She stills in the doorway, then slowly turns around. “Why is Sandra coming over?”

She fiddles with the sunglasses hanging on top of her head. “Charles invited her,” she says.

Lucas snorts. Charles doesn’t do mother love. Actually, this might be the only thing they have in common, now that he thinks about it. “Charles,” he repeats slowly, “invited his mother. Out of the blue.”

Manon shrugs. “Yes. That’s the sort of things that happens, I suppose.”

“Not in this family,” he sneers.

She opens her mouth and closes it, and a handful of expressions he can’t quite pinpoint crosses her face. Eventually she lets out a sigh. “Fine, but don’t tell him I’ve told you,” she says. Lucas has half a mind to tell her that the least he talks with her boyfriend, the better he feels, but then she starts talking again. “Charles and I, we’re getting married.”

**MARDI, 09:44**

The thing is, Sandra Lallemant has always been a strange bird.

Even among the rest of the family, she manages to stand out, and Lucas would be quite at loss of a valid answer as to know exactly where that comes from. It’s just that between her three engagements, her lifelong allergy to settling down and her never-ending complaints about most of the paradisiac destinations she ever went to, there are quite a few options to pick out from — oh and, leaving her son behind, but that’s a long story.

Finding himself trapped in a moving vehicle with her wasn’t exactly on the shortlist of things he wanted to do on his last few weeks of freedom before school kicks off, but it’s not like he’s been given the choice.

“Everything is always so green,” she says, sounding rather bored, as they leave Bordeaux’s immediate vicinity and dive into the lush green countryside.

Lucas glances at her from the corner of his eyes. “It rained quite a bit.”

She hums in response, and grabs her designer purse sitting at her feet to dig out a phone charger that she off-handedly plugs into the lighter socket.

That too, it’s a source of wonder — the designer purse, not the lighter socket. No one truly knows where her money comes from. Charles’ dad, aside from being a first-grade absentee who got bullied into leaving the family, has never shown with his aptitude to make good money, and Lucas’ dearest cousin has long passed the age of providing his mother with food support of any kind. Rationally speaking he knows some of her money probably comes from her father’s inheritance, and the compensation for giving up her share of the domaine and all, but that doesn’t quite vouch for a life of fancy trips and even fancier personal belongings.

“I can already hear all the moaning on the domaine,” she huffs, scrolling down her phone. “I bet your mom is losing her shit.”

Lucas gives a vague shrug. “She’s holding it together.” Which isn’t entirely a lie.

That’s another thing about this family. Sandra and his mom never got along, not in the slightest. He doesn’t know much about the early years, when they were all younger and stuff, but one thing he’s sure about is that for some reason his mom has always been his grandfather’s favorite child, so beyond that it’s not that hard to do the math.

She gives another hum. “She’d eat glass shards before she admits it though,” Sandra adds, with the faint trace of a chuckle. “Sometimes I wonder if she just doesn’t get off by making the rest of us feel worse than crap.”

Lucas refrains an eyeroll, choosing to focus pointedly on the road instead. One of the few things he’s figured out about his oh-so-strange aunt is that she’s got this tendency to try and rope you into her problems like they are your own. Sure there’s some appeal when you’re thirteen and trying to process your anger against your mother, but when you’re twenty-two and just trying to fly under the radar long enough to get the fuck out of here as fast possible, it gets trickier and a lot weirder.

_Manon, you owe me big time_.

Objectively he understands why she asked, he _does_ , but what he can’t understand, why he doesn’t _want_ to process, is why he’s the only one who ends up in this situation, when it’s not even his business to begin with. He can't believe this is all happening. He can't believe she even uttered the word _marriage_ without throwing up, because clearly that's how he feels about the whole ordeal.

For a while the car goes mostly silent, which probably has more to do with the content of his aunt’s phone than with the wall he’s trying to build for himself.

“How’s your dad?”, she asks, when whatever she was keeping herself busy with gets too boring to her own taste.

Lucas swallows down, a tad bitter. Funny how his dad always comes as an afterthought for literally everyone in this fucked up family. “He’s doing great,” he replies, making his way past a roundabout, and then, almost to hurt himself on purpose, he adds: “Maybe you should go see him, I’m sure he’d be happy.”

“Oh no, I don’t have the time,” she says, not sounding remorseful in the least, and it’s a real wonder how Lucas manages to keep his eyes on the road because _what the fuck do you have to do_? As far as he’s concerned she doesn’t have shit to do here. “I’m only staying here long enough so that Charles doesn’t go about accusing me of not paying enough attention or whatever. But hey, I’m glad to know he’s doing well. After all it’s about willpower past a certain point.”

And yup. Nope. This time Lucas’ head snaps to the side, blood rushing through his veins fast as a shotgun, and he has to make a supreme effort not to slam his foot on the brake pedal in the middle of the road. _Are you for fucking real_ , he almost yells.

“Are you serious?”, he blurts out after a moment, unable to stop himself.

What does she know about it? What does she fucking know about anything _at all_? Just because she went to Sedona once and reposted some self-empowerment bullshit in its shallowest form on her dumb Instagram account doesn’t fucking _mean_ she can deem herself a fucking mental health expert. Least of all when she hasn’t visited her brother in years.

Sandra looks up from her phone, that she just picked up, and she has the audacity to look surprised. “Oh come on, Lucas,” she says with a sugary voice. “Christophe has always been fragile, he’s one of those people who need to want something to really achieve it.”

He laughs dryly. “So you think him struggling with schizophrenia is about him _not_ wanting to achieve it?”

She shrugs, flippant. “I do think there’s some of it. And let’s be honest, if I had to live 24/7 with Isabelle, I too would want to drive my car into the nearest tree.”

Lucas’ fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, and taking one hand off to reach for the gearshift occasionally is already asking a lot from Lucas’ more than thinning patience. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the road. Not sparing a glance, not sparing a word, driving just subtly past the speed limit to hopefully get this over with as soon as possible.

It’s fucking funny, really. For someone who’s always so prone on criticizing his mom, these two surely have a lot in common — the thought alone makes Lucas’ skin prickle.

For the first time in longer than he’s able to recall, seeing the stoned walls of the domaine getting closer and closer is some kind of a relief.

“Why are you stopping?” Sandra asks with a frown, when he pulls the vehicle to a harsh stop near the large entrance.

“I’m expected somewhere,” he says, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

One more minute with her and he can’t vouch for what’s about to happen. She lets out a huff, but eventually unbuckles her seatbelt. He lets his fingers impatiently drum around the steering wheel as she takes an extra few minutes to gather her things, then to retrieve her monogrammed suitcase from the trunk — and then he’s off.

**MARDI, 11:27**

“Hey there,” Lucas says, after knocking lightly a couple of times on the door hanging wide open.

His dad spins around on his desk chair, a bright smile lighting up his features as his blue eyes dart onto him. “Lucas!” He immediately scurries up onto his feet, taking off his glasses in the process as Lucas slides inside the room. 

It’s not long before he finds himself wrapped into a bone-crushing hug, his dad’s stubble making the skin of his cheek burn, and his huff is coming out muffled. As usual, there’s the entire world, and then there’s his dad. The only person outside of his friend circle who looks at least remotely happy to see him. Deep down, he’s always known comparing his dad’s love for him to his mom’s was disloyal; as far as he’s concerned, she’s always been distant by nature, often prone to annoyance if not outright irritation. Once she told him she didn’t like children, and it would probably be a lot more valid excuse if she had started warming up to him as the years went on.

But she did not. Shocker.

Lucas grins back when he finally lets go of him, groaning a little for good measure when his dad ruffles his hair like he used to a lifetime ago. 

“I was just talking about you earlier,” his dad says enthusiastically, before going back to sit on his desk chair. As usual the worktable is crumbling under the weight of dozens of books piled up haphazardly in gravity-defying order, with thin, 160-page long guides at the bottom and heavy, 600-page long anthologies at the top. Once a pile fell down in the middle of the night and it woke up half the residents of the floor, not to mention the nurses who barely escaped a heart attack when they thought someone had made something blow up — apparently his dad has yet to learn to be careful.

“I hope it was in positive terms,” Lucas huffs, perching himself on the foot of his bed.

That would make for a nice change, he almost says.

“Actually, there’s this girl who’s filling in for Jennifer during the summer, her name’s Julie. She’s a very, very sweet girl,” his dad says. “She’s planning to go to London with her fiancé in the fall, so I told her how my son is this genius studying in a top-notch business school, you know, as one does-”

“You did _not_ ,” Lucas protests, biting back a laugh, and he gives a small push into his dad’s chair from the tip of his shoe.

“I _did_ ,” he retorts, and when Lucas lets out a few more protests, he gives him a pleading look. “Lucas, you’re my only chance to brag as a parent, don’t take that away from me, thank you very much.”

_What an idiot_ , he thinks fondly. He gives an exasperated eyeroll for good measure but sits back, marginally quieter as his dad goes on. “So I told her that, and she was very excited and asked if you could maybe write down a few good spots for her.”

“Dad, there are websites that would do the job far better than me,” Lucas sighs. He can’t be the only one TripAdvisor had saved in the past few years. “I haven’t been to a museum in like, forever and I’m not sure she needs extra tips on which pub to visit.”

The museum part is a lie, obviously, because he’s never risked a foot in one of them — he’s a barbarian like that. Like most people who move to a big city he’s always assumed playing the tourist was beneath him, and before he knew it three years had passed. Not to mention that his favorite pub has a Pride flag made of neon lights occupying half a wall behind the bar, and it offers the first drink to any drag crossing the threshold.

Somehow, he’s not exactly sure it qualifies as the sort of things his dad wants his genius of a son to recommend to Julie-the-sweet-sweet-nurse. Yet, he’s sitting there, pouting, and Lucas feels his resolve crumble a little. “Can you just give it a try at least? I’m sure you’ll get a few more ideas in time.”

“Fine, I’ll try to think of a few stuff,” he drawls and his dad lets out a victorious ‘ _ah!_ ’, reclining back into his seat. Lucas points at the laptop behind his dad with his chin. “How’s the new guide coming along?”

He risks a look behind his shoulder. “It’s going great. We’re planning a new type of travelling guide, but this time it’s aimed at a younger audience. The plan is to develop a more concise and more efficient way of travelling but in a shorter span of time, you know?” He’s gesturing with his hands as he speaks and it makes Lucas smile a little as he nods every now and then. “I’ve got a few meetings planned in the coming days, and I could use someone to taste the wine for me. You should come, we could make a day out of it. What do you think?”

“That’d be great, but I’m not sure I’ve got the great palate for that, Dad.”

It’s probably the understatement of the year. His dad stares at him, his face getting a little more serious. Lucas has to force himself not to squirm.

“Lucas, do you like wine?”, he asks after a while, sounding rather serious.

He’s torn between feeling relieved or nervous, between the idea of laughing it off or being truthful. _No I don’t_ is the first thing that comes to his mind. _I don’t like wine, I hate it_ , he wants to say, with his most juvenile tone. He wants to stomp his feet and throw a tantrum. But if he’s to be absolutely honest, a hundred percent truthful, it’s a lie. He does like wine. Moderately, just like the next person. What he doesn’t like, what he hates, what he _resents_ is all the implications that dumb drink has over his life. 

“Yeah, I do,” he says, forcing a casual shrug.

His dad’s face breaks into another smile. “Then you’re just as good as anybody else. I could teach you a few things.”

Lucas hums in response, swinging his legs above the frame of the bed. He has no doubt that his father’s enthusiasm is genuine, but it’s coming from someone who’s never had a real way of comparing Lucas with others.

“How’s your mother?”

Lucas purses his lips a little. “She’s fine. Overworked, on edge, thriving. Same as she’s always been.” _When was the last time she called?_ , he wonders. When was the last time she simply bothered coming?

“Good, good,” his dad nods, and he picks up his glasses, fiddling with the branches for a while. Ever since he’s stopped living with them, Lucas always had that sick need for his father to burst. For him to say something, to speak up his damn mind about her, but he’s always seemed to make a point of not doing that, of never giving in, and this time doesn’t seem to be any exception. After a moment, he gives a small shrug, almost to himself. “And what about you? Tell me, how are you? Is there anything new happening?”

_My friend Manon is getting engaged. Spoiler alert, it’s with Charles. Yes. That Charles. Our Charles. Oh and, your sister is visiting, but I highly doubt she’s going to drop by, considering she’s so overworked she can’t find five minutes of her time._

Here come the murder vibes again.

His dad is staring expectantly at him, and Lucas struggles to find something positive to say. What’s the most positive thing that happened to him lately?

_Eliott_.

Eliott happened to him. Truth be told, he almost thinks about telling his dad. About Eliott. About him. Right here, right there. Staring back into his father’s eyes, with his nice smile and the air of genuine interest, Lucas thinks about telling him. _Dad I met someone_. _He’s awesome and nerdy and soft and I’m feeling good with him_.

Maybe he’d take it well. Maybe he’d love him enough to care more about his happiness than about the gender of his partner. But maybe it’s not enough. _You’re living in London all year long, you’re around three weeks a year top._

He doesn’t know shit. He doesn’t even know if he’s loved enough to take the risk.

“Nothing more than last week,” he hears himself saying, voice sounding a little bit quiet.

He clears his throat and hops down from the bed, taking a few steps around the bedroom to shake himself out of it. “Do you-” His voice trails off and he turns back to his dad, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Do you maybe feel like going out? We could take a stroll before grabbing lunch.”

**MARDI, 17:49**

“When you said you wanted us to meet, I wasn’t expecting to find you in here,” Eliott says, with a disarming smile that makes Lucas laugh quietly, as he steps inside the shed.

It’s not the biggest of the outbuildings, but it’s the farthest, and since it’s mostly filled with older engines they didn’t use all that much anymore on the vines, it’s usually clear of any living soul. When Lucas was a kid and they only came to the domaine for the summer holidays, he’d always sneak here and climb everywhere he could reach, until a fall or a bad scrap forced him to go back running home. He can’t begin to remember how many shirts, shorts, pants he sacrificed to a puddle of greasy oil on the ground, or a metallic piece sticking out from somewhere.

Eliott motions to close the heavy wooden door behind himself, but it only makes the whole building tremble and he stares with horrified eyes as the rolling sound echoes like a shotgun. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that,” he winced sheepishly.

“It’s fine,” Lucas says with a small wave, from his favorite spot.

Almost naturally, as soon as he got home, he had found himself escalading the old Fiat Someca gathering dust in the farthest corner, a small tractor without a cabin whose faded orange color could no longer make up for the rusty spots littering the hood.

“How was your day?”, he asks, leaning forward onto the ratty seat, resting his elbows on the edge of the steering wheel.

“It was fine. Lacking in the Lucas department but we’re fixing that so it’s good,” Eliott shrugs, padding closer until he’s standing next to the tractor. “You?”

He shrugs too. “Same here.”

Turns out he’s spent a good portion of the day hanging out with his dad. It’s not hard to get his father to talk; he’s a rather chatty person in itself, but when he’s going off on his job, it’s practically impossible to stop him. Years ago, when they were still living in Paris, he took a job as a journalist, and since he got more or less kicked out of the domaine, he started working again on the side, writing some pieces about wine and several _châteaux_ in the region, and then he got an offer to write a guide, about six years ago, that has since snowballed into about a dozen more.

Throughout their lunch, he let him fill him in with the newest developments, and when they got back to his dad’s residence, he kept on showing him articles and various blogs online — they even ended up on Instagram at some point, scrolling through foodie content of various kinds.

Overall, it’s been a fun afternoon, and it made up for the crappy morning with Sandra.

But the weirdest thing about it all, is that they didn’t talk about him. Mostly because he’s got nothing to say. He had already mentioned everything noticeable about his vacation in Sicily with Yann a week ago when he dropped by, and since school hasn’t picked up yet he couldn’t bitch about next semester’s schedule yet. So yeah. It’s not even because his dad fusses over him that he feels good when he’s around, it’s not even that. It’s just… It’s his energy, or whatever.

It’s just something that he can’t put into words, but that he misses more than he’d like to admit — something that he can’t take with him when he leaves. But still. With Eliott around, it feels better, and he even finds himself grinning. Unbelievable how much that boy can do to improve his mood in so little words — ridiculous even. He welcomes the distraction happily, watching with intent as Eliott hoists himself up on the hood. His iron grey sleeveless shirt matches his eyes and emphasizes a few new sunburns running across his arms, and his faded jean shorts show his tanned legs.

Truly a sight, Lucas thinks to himself.

“You look good up there,” he says.

Eliott beams, and he shuffles closer to be able to peck him on the lips above the steering wheel. It feels somewhat natural, so much that Lucas has troubles putting it all in perspective.

“Is everything okay?”, Eliott asks after a moment, and it takes Lucas an extra couple of seconds before he realizes he had been caught staring.

He looks away, slumping a little back against the backrest of the ratty seat. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s all good.” _Liar, liar._ He should really watch himself better.

Eliott reaches for his back pocket for a tobacco packet, and he quickly busies himself with it. The shed falls silent, Lucas stealing glances as Eliott picks up his zippo and lights up the tip of his cigarette, before exhaling a puff of white smoke. That guy could feature as a poster boy for the smoking lobby, Lucas thinks with a huff to himself. He accepts the cigarette when Eliott hands it to him, his eyes trailing to Eliott’s long legs dangling off the hood as he absently takes a drag.

“I went to see my dad today,” he hears himself saying after a moment. Eliott, who’s been staring at the wooden structure of the ceiling, looks back at him. “I’m always a bit off afterwards but it’s fine.” He doesn’t mention that this time it has more to do with his aunt than with his father, because he’s complaining about enough family members as it is.

It takes him a good few seconds to realize Eliott is strangely quiet as he hands him back the cigarette. Lucas watches him with a quirked brow. “I just- I mean. You never talk about him I just assumed-,” his voice trails off and his eyes wander away awkwardly. “Nevermind it’s really dumb of me to make assumptions.”

Lucas huffs and leans forward, hooking a wrist in the steering wheel. “You thought he wasn’t in the picture,” he completes, and Eliott grimace bashfully. “It’s fine.”

_Everyone in this family keeps forgetting he exists anyway_ , he almost adds. He adjusts his position a little on the seat as Eliott tugs at his cigarette silently. He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself reaching out above the dusty dashboard, his hand settling on Eliott’s thigh.

“Do you mind me asking?”, Eliott asks after a brief moment, cocking his face a little as he hands him back the cigarette.

Lucas ponders his answer. Not because he doesn’t know what to say, mostly because he doesn’t know what to feel. No one ever asks about his dad. No one cares enough to talk about it, about him, about how Lucas feels. He’s not sure anyone has ever asked. “Fire away,” he says with a gentle squeeze on his thigh, before reclining back into his seat.

“Did your parents, like, split up?”, he asks after a while.

“In a way,” Lucas admits, and he brings the cigarette to his lips. He takes the time for the nicotine to make its way through his lungs before releasing it in the air. “My mom and my grandfather put him in psychiatric ward years ago. Schizophrenia.”

He’s always assumed that divorcing would have meant his mother would have been legally cut off from the domaine and her father-in-law’s will, and his father’s curatorship would have either befallen on Sandra (what a fucking joke) or someone from the State — and knowing the people around here, he couldn’t begin to imagine how many of them would have gripped their pearls at the mere thought of someone meddling in the business of _Château Saint-Aignan_. But as it is, she’s had full authority on the matter ever since and she doesn’t have to deal with her husband; it’s a win-win situation.

And truth is, Lucas isn’t strictly mad about it. At least his dad receives the care and attention he needs, and he frankly can’t be bothered to care about the domaine and who’s running it.

Eliott shuffles on the hood, and when Lucas looks up, he’s moved from sitting to straddling it, facing Lucas from across the steering wheel. “Is the situation that bad for them to do that?”

Lucas doesn’t know why it makes him feel the way it did — but the fact that Eliott isn’t putting the blame on his dad right away makes him feel _something_. Maybe some gratefulness. Maybe some tenderness. He has no fucking idea. He just knows in that moment he wouldn’t have minded if the steering wheel wasn’t there, and if maybe, just maybe, Eliott’s arms were around him. 

“I’d say he’s doing better than he used to,” Lucas replies honestly. “He’s left the ward, now he leaves in a living facility close-by. I really wish I could see him more often but with him here and me in London, it’s a bit… a bit complicated, yeah.”

Eliott rests his crossed arms on the steering wheel, leaning a bit closer. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Lucas smiles. “It’s okay.”

He brings the remnants of cigarette to Eliott’s lips, who picks it up with a casual wink as a thank you. “You seem to have a good relationship with him,” he says after a moment.

_Better than your mom_. He doesn’t think Eliott meant it, or even implied it, but Lucas’ brain supplies for him and he’s forced to admit it was true.

“Yeah.”

He leans forward as Eliott is putting out the cigarette against the sole of his shoe, mirroring the position he had a moment ago. Once he’s done with it, Eliott runs a hand through Lucas’ hair, softly brushing it back. Lucas looks up, leaning a little into the touch.

“I told you once how my grandfather was an asshole and all, right?”, he says again after a moment. Eliott nods. “Well, when we moved over here, that’s when things started deteriorating for my dad. Getting back on the domaine, I think it didn’t do him any favor. He was… He was out of it, to put it mildly. He was upset, he was fidgety, he’d panic a lot and tons of stuff would trigger him out of nowhere.”

His eyes trail away and he heaves a small sigh.

“Once, I was thirteen I think? He had a psychotic episode and, like, I don’t know where everybody was, I just remember that I was the only one around. It was raining like crazy, like, heavy summer storm. He went to take his car, and I knew I couldn’t stop him but at the same time I knew something bad would happen if I didn’t go with him. You know?”

Sometimes you just know that kind of shit, deep down in your gut. It might have been just a very bad feeling, or just a very realistic rendition of a worst-case scenario, but it was there, and he can still easily remember the way he felt like someone had poured ice into his veins. He rubs his eye distractedly. “So yeah, I just hopped in. I don’t really know why, I didn’t think it through. Anyway, we drove for about four, five kilometers before he wrapped the car around a tree.”

_I too would want to drive my car into the nearest tree_.

What a fucking asshole. He doesn’t know how he didn’t slap Sandra right on the spot.

Eliott’s hand has stilled in his hair. “Did you get hurt?”, he asks, and when Lucas looks back up, he finds him with a quirked brow, face crumpled into an upset frown.

Lucas leans back a little, escaping Eliott’s hands. “Not seriously.” Seventeen stitches sound bad when they are all in one place, but it’s really not all that much. He pushes his hair to the side, lifting up a few strands covering his temple. There’s a thin line riding up past his hairline, not big, maybe two, three centimeters long — barely noticeable, really. Usually it’s covered by his hair anyway. “See? Not that bad.”

Eliott hums in response; he doesn’t look very convinced, but it’s not like Lucas can provide a better proof than him being alive nearly ten years later to recount the story. Eventually, after a moment of staring, Eliott averts his eyes with a twist of his mouth. “I’m really sorry you’ve had to deal with all of that. That you still have to. And I truly understand why you didn’t want to come here.”

Lucas hums putting one of his hands on Eliott’s knees. “But I told you, some things are truly worth it,” he says, leaning back forward. “You might even be a part of it.”

“Oh, really?”, Eliott scoffs. “ _Might_? Why, is it conditional?”

It feels like the atmosphere is getting lighter, and truth is, Lucas is breathing a little better. “Any condition I might put, I’m your boss’ son. It sounds awfully like sexual exploitation on my part.”

“So you’re admitting you only want me for my body,” Eliott sighs, shaking his head as he plays along. “I should have known there was a catch when I lent you that lighter.”

Lucas snorts, and he lifts himself up from the seat to grab Eliott’s hand. “Oh, so you’re just doing _that_ ,” he mimics the way Eliott brought his hand to his mouth on the first night, minus the cigarette, “with every guy you lend your lighter to?”

Eliott starts laughing, shaking himself free from Lucas’ grip, and Lucas finds himself grinning like a moron. “Fuck off, maybe that’s your thing but that’s not mine.”

Lucas cocks an eyebrow, pocking at Eliott’s thigh. “And what’s your thing then?”

Eliott ponders his answer, and he drags himself closer. “I think it must have to do with you,” he admits, with a flippant shrug that doesn’t fool Lucas one bit.

He smirks. “Getting soft are we?”

“Moderately.”

“I’m glad to know my amazing pedigree isn’t a turn off for you.”

“I mean, technically it’s not,” Eliott says slowly. “But Charles…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, pointedly wrinkling his nose. Despite himself almost, Lucas starts laughing, and Eliott follows. “I’m serious, that’s where I draw the line. I can’t believe I even thought for one second you two were brothers.”

He shakes his head dramatically.

“And what would you have done if we were?”, Lucas asks.

Eliott pretends to give it a thought. “I don’t know. Maybe something that would send me to jail. What can I say, I’m truly in too deep.”

“I can’t blame you,” Lucas says, heaving a sigh.

Eliott rolls his eyes, slightly pulling away, but Lucas catches him by the arm and draws him back in until Eliott is hovering just a few centimeters above Lucas’ head. He leans down, brushing their nose together, with so much softness it made Lucas’ heart flutter. For a moment they stay like ~~d~~ this, and Lucas’ hand reaches up to cup his face, lightly stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“Every once in a while it just hits me how much I like you,” Eliott admits quietly.

“And how much is that?”, Lucas enquires teasingly.

Eliott chews on his bottom lip. “A lot.”

Lucas smiles. “That’s a lot indeed,” he whispers, pecking him softly on the lips.

**MERCREDI, 17:37**

****

**MERCREDI, 18:14**

“Oh, you scared me,” his mother says when she waltzes in the living room.

He looks up from his phone, unimpressed. “Sorry I breathed,” he deadpans from his spot on one of the armchairs facing the large fireplace. It’s really a talent that runs in the family, to constantly make it sound like he shouldn’t be here, while still forcing him to be there at all.

His mother rolls her eyes, and stays put for one more second to glance at his tee-shirt and his jean-shorts. “You’re not ready yet?”, she asks, a tad briskly, before looking down at her watch.

“Still got plenty of time,” he shrugs, looking back to his phone pointedly. “You on the other hand…”

They’re supposed to flock at a restaurant in about an hour — him, Charles, Manon, his mother, his dear aunt Sandra and Manon’s parents —, for what he assumes is going to be ‘the big announcement’. Just the thought of it makes him want to throw up. Or at least to break something. The mere idea that Manon is going to attach herself, at twenty-two, to _Charles_ is too fucking much for him to process. He can’t even see a silver lining into this.

Or maybe just one. At least he doesn’t think she’s pregnant. Not yet. So that still leaves some time for her to realize what kind of douchebag that man actually is — assuming she can even see the light.

The fact that everyone conveniently decided that Lucas’ dad would not be a part of it is the cherry on top. Maybe if they hadn’t insisted to include Lucas himself to that pitiful attempt at a family dinner he’d have considered it to be a good thing, yet here they are.

“I was waiting for another call regarding the sale, but I guess it won’t happen today,” his mom says. There’s a one-second silence between them, and then she turns onto her heels to leave the room.

“About that, I was meaning to ask,” Lucas calls out, lifting himself up onto his armchair, just as she’s about to walk out. “What’s up with that? New Zealand, I mean.”

She turns back, with always that air of subtle disdain. “We bought a vineyard at an auction and we’re trying to buy a second one.”

Lucas frowns. “Really? Why?”

She sighs, like he’s being particularly difficult to handle when all he’s done so far is asking one tiny question he shouldn’t even need to ask. “Because that’s called business, Lucas. I’m paying that ridiculously expensive business school for you to understand these things.”

“I just don’t understand why we’d bother with vineyards that are literally on the other side of the planet,” he says.

Like, he understands on some level. It probably has to do with the trust-funds his grandfather has put together years and years ago, so on some level _he does understand_. His studies might not be all that thrilling, he’s smart enough to understand the very basic concept of trust-funds, thank you very much. He just doesn’t understand the appeal anyone could find In buying lands overseas, in _New Zealand_.

If there’s one thing he knows about wine-making people’s way of thinking, it’s that there’s a hierarchy. And _Château Saint-Aignan_ , with its vintage reds and its pricy whites, is at the top, or at least reasonably near the top; most definitely much, much higher than any New Zealander appellation that no one has ever heard about.

His mother pointedly stares at her watch some more. “Look, Lucas, I really don’t have time for this right now.”

“That’s the problem,” he huffs, dropping himself back down into his seat, “you never have time when I’m asking you stuff and then you say I don’t give a fuck.”

“Because you do?”, she snorts, cocking an eyebrow. “Lucas, in the past ten years, I don’t recall you ever showing interest about this domaine. Not even once. So don’t go around pretending I’m the one brushing you off when the most you do is complaining and showing disinterest for the family business that is keeping your bank account afloat,” she snaps. And before he can even protest, she immediately adds: “Now I need to go prepare for dinner. Make an effort, it’s a special night.”

It downs on him then. Again, just as she’s about to walk out the room. “You know what this is about.”

Once more, she turns back, not even looking remotely phased. “Well, Charles asked me for advice.”

“And you didn’t think about telling him it was maybe a little bit early?”, he retorts snappily.

She ignores him. “How do _you_ know?” It sounds vaguely accusing. Like she doesn’t like the idea of not being the only one to know somehow.

“Manon told me.”

She hums in response. “You’re spending a lot of time with her,” she observes.

He barely holds back a snort. These days they only seem to see each other by mistake. In-between doors, or when she drops by unannounced, or when Charles comes back home to fetch something and she tags along. They have that weird living habit where they spend half their time on the domaine and the rest in Manon’s flat in Fronsac, which is about as impractical as you might think.

(Although, he suspects it’s because Charles doesn’t want to lose his spot in the family house.)

“Not really anymore,” he states, laconic.

His mother nods. “Well, I think it should stay that way.”

Lucas blinks. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry what?”

She looks back at him. “Oh, please, Lucas,” she sneers, and it sounds so disdainful she might as well have slapped him, the sting would have just about the same. “You need to realize that you can’t have everything in life. You’ll find someone else.”

His eyes widen. “ _What_ the fuck are you talking about?”, he blurts out.

“Listen, Manon is a really nice girl, she’s pretty, she’s smart, I’ll give her that, but she’s not the only girl in the world,” his mother elaborates, and with every single word Lucas loses a bit of respect for her. “I’ve let it slide but now that things are getting serious between Charles and her you need to-”

“You think…” His voice trails off. It would be so fucking funny, _oh so fucking funny_ if she wasn’t so serious. If it didn’t sound like she had rehearsed a fucked-up intervention-style speech. But as it is, he wants to rip apart one of the cushions. “You think _I’m into her_?”

It’s not happening. Right? He’s dreaming. That’s what this is about. He’s fucking dreaming, maybe choking on a pillow, and that’s _it_. It’s too surreal to be happening.

But still. It’s happening.

“Charles told me you asked her to go on vacation with you,” she adds, like she’s making a fucking point somehow.

The thought of his fucker of a cousin going to complain behind his back should be funny too, _it should be_ , if it wasn’t something he had been constantly doing, ever since his mother left his sorry ass behind all those years ago to hop in a fucking plane.

“Because she’s my _friend,_ ” he bites back pointedly.

“Oh please,” she rolls her eyes with a dismissive huff. “I know how that works.”

“No you _don’t_ ,” he snaps. “She’s my friend, that’s fucking _all_ she is.”

_I’m gay for fuck’s sake,_ he wants to scream, but he just can’t. The words are trapped in his throat and all he’s left doing is screaming inside his own head. _I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay. You don’t know a single thing about me_.

He’s going insane. That’s what it fucking is about. That’s what it feels like.

His mother heaves a sigh. “That’s the problem, Lucas. She’s not just your friend anymore, she’s your cousin’s fiancée. She’s going to be part of the family and I don’t want you to screw this up just because-”

“Because I don’t know my place?” he snarls bitterly. “Is that so?”

“Sometimes, yes,” she replies briskly, and this time, when she heads out, he knows she won’t come back.

He stands up to follow her through the hall. “Well it seems that you don’t know very well yours either, because last I check you’re not Charles’ mother and you’re not exactly well-versed in the secrets of a happy married life!” She doesn’t reply anything, and simply starts climbing up the staircase. It drives him fucking insane. Suddenly he’s starting to understand why some people end up stabbing to death some family member. “You’re talking about being a fucking family,” he yells from the bottom of the staircase, “but when was the last time you acted like we were one with anybody else but Charles? When was the last time you even cared enough to go see dad, to check on him?”

At last she bothers giving him a look, not before she’s reached the top half of the stairs though. It’s freezing cold, but it’s not like he expected anything else. “What happens between your father and I is none of your business, Lucas,” she grits out. “And for someone who lives abroad all year long I think it’s rich for you to talk about him.”

The words keep stinging long after she’s disappeared upstairs.

So does the hand that bitterly kicks the thick wooden banister for that matter.

**MERCREDI, 19:01**

****

**MERCREDI, 21:54**

There are two things you probably need to know about Lucas, and to some extent his particular frame of mind that evening.

One, he really, _really_ didn’t want to go.

Two, he was already not quite sober when they made it to the restaurant.

Somewhere between the warm and soothing wave of motherly advices and them joining the rest of the family, Lucas realized he was going to spend at least forty minutes trapped into a moving vehicle with his mother, and he decided he couldn’t handle it with an absolutely clear mind — so he got buzzed. Not enough to stop thinking, but at least he tried, which he thinks should matter.

Now that they’ve been sitting in the dining room of the _Golden Horn_ , a four-star hostel on the outskirts of Bordeaux, for roughly two hours, he isn’t quite sure how he can even pretend for one minute longer — least of all for another hour.

It’s like everything is specifically made to annoy him.

The heavy, red velvet covered chairs have felt uncomfortable for as long as Lucas has been sitting; the thick material makes his skin hitch, and now the fabric of his fancy shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his back. To make matters even worse he’s sitting between his mother and Manon’s around the round table, and he’s positive the optics are the only reason Sandra is the one who sat next to Charles and not his mother. Manon’s parents are roughly what Lucas has always been expecting from them: wealthy, boringly average, smooth on the surface but worth at least a third-place ribbon in the Asshole Parents category. They look like the rest of the couples sitting around them, whispering below the cathedral ceiling and the chandeliers weirdly low, and he’s not sure the conversation would be any different if he switched them for the one two tables away from them.

So far dinner has been boring, everyone exchanging pleasantries that don’t make the conversation pick up more than a few minutes, before it inevitably falls flat all over again. Sandra places a few good stories about her numerous trips abroad, and Manon’s parents talk about work and business and things Lucas doesn’t care enough about to pay attention to. He sips on his drink more often than he usually would, thanks to his crappy signal.

It’s probably what makes this evening so tragically terrible, thinking about it.

If he had enough signal to text with Eliott throughout the whole ordeal, it might have been enough to take his mind off things — but he quickly has to abandon that idea, when the first text never gets sent at all. That’s how he finds himself staring at nothing, while overdressed waiters spin around the table, serving fancy alcohol and announcing an overcomplicated first course he doesn’t remember picking as the plates are placed in front of them. He doesn’t eat much; there’s very little that catches his attention and he’s not really hungry anyway.

They’re finishing when a different waiter turns up to their table, swiftly sliding next to Charles. Unlike the others that have been pacing back and forth across the dining room, he’s wearing an impeccable black button-down, with always a tablecloth carefully folded hanging off his arm, and he ceremoniously presents a bottle of red. “Château Margaux 1990,” he announces, with the snobbish accent people always take when they’re talking about fancy wine, and just with the subtle way he has to duck his head in almost deference, Lucas knows it’s expensive as fuck.

There are a few gasps around the table, mostly coming from Manon’s parents.

“Charles, goodness you’re spoiling us,” Manon’s dad practically applauds, the waiter filling his glass, and Lucas wants to shove it down his throat.

“Oh no, it’s Manon’s pick,” Charles says, looking infuriatingly smug in his Armani shirt, because of _course_ it’s Armani, he _only_ ever wears Armani shirts ever since he touched his first paycheck. He slides an arm behind Manon’s back, resting it on the back of her chair. “I know she’s got some strong opinions.”

_Well clearly not enough when it comes to her men_ , Lucas snorts bitterly to himself. He’s not sure but there’s a possibility he said that aloud, judging by the quick look another waiter throws his way, when he brings them a fresh basket of bread, but it’s not like it’s a problem.

It would require for literally anyone to pay attention for them to notice anyway.

“You say that like it’s a problem!”, Manon laughs, playfully shoving him away, and it irks Lucas beyond words.

Just seeing them together, it makes him want to throw a plate in his cousin’s face. It’s what he gets for dodging the bullet all year long. It’s what he gets for ignoring Manon’s lovesick stories and heartfelt declarations on Instagram the rest of the time, now he just can’t escape it — but it’s fine, he’ll make it through. The beers he’s drunk at home, his whiskey coke during the appetizers and the wine they’ve had during the first two courses have started making his head buzz a little, and he’s slurring a bit as he hands his empty glass of wine to the waiter for a refill.

“Maybe you should stick to water,” his mother’s voice says briskly.

He nods thank you to the waiter, pointedly picking his glass up and bringing it to his lips. “You afraid people might think I’m not enjoying myself?”, he snickers. _You can’t ignore me for eleven months and then smother me_ , he wants to add, but it doesn’t come out for some reason.

He can feel his mother’s eyes on him, drilling holes into his skin. “Stop that,” she grits out, low enough for only Lucas to hear it. “Immediately. It’s not the right moment.”

“Oh, so there _is_ a right moment. Fucking good to know,” he snarls, slumping back a little against the uncomfortable chair, and he takes another generous sip of his wine. “Y’better get used to it, cause there’s no way I’m sitting through their wedding sober. If I’m invited, that is.”

Sandra’s head swivels in their direction. “What wedding?”, she interrupts, and Lucas has to admit he gets a sick pleasure from the way the conversation stops brutally between Charles and his father-in-law.

“Oh yeah,” Lucas says with a casual grin, gesturing vaguely. “They’re getting ma—rried. You’d know if you were around,” he shrugs, pointing to his mother with his glass. “She knew.”

Sandra’s face makes a funny thing, her left eye twitching as she turns to her son. “Is that true?”, she asks, voice sounding snappy. Manon and Charles exchange a look, looking a little taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation.

Her mother looks shell-shocked, but probably for a different reason, one that has nothing to do with an infuriatingly perfect sister-in-law taking _oh so much space_. “Manon?”, she calls out.

Her daughter looks a little conflicted as her eyes skim around the table uncomfortably.

Sandra lets out a snort, and she grabs a waiter on his way to a different table by the arm as he’s nearing theirs with a bottle of vodka. “Leave the bottle,” she says, and after a second of hesitation the guy puts the bottle at the center of their table.

It’s almost funny really, the way it all unfolds. Lucas snorts to himself, and Manon glares at him. “You weren’t supposed to find out about it like that,” she says, twisting her mouth in discomfort.

“Amazing, so I’m just the last one to find out,” Sandra snaps, pouring herself a generous portion of vodka like it’s water.

Charles looks annoyed. “ _Mom_.”

“Oh no, no. It’s fine. You picked your side of the family wisely.”

Before Charles can say anything that would inevitably fail to appease his mother, Lucas raises his glass, making the remnants of his red sway dangerously close to the rim. “A toast, to our future groom and bride and our happy, _happy_ family,” he snickers dryly, tongue thick, and then he turns to Manon’s parents who eye him like he’s definitely lost his mind. “And y’all too, I guess, cause you’ll be, like, part of it now-”

“Lucas, shut the fuck up,” Charles hisses brutally.

“Lucas,” his mother grits out at the same time, and she grabs his arm to force it down.

If eyes could kill, he’d surely be laying on the floor with a handful of bullet wounds in his skull by now, that’s for sure. Lucas ignores him — them. “-it’s a nice family, you’ll see. Just not if you need them, that gets-,” he lets out a bitter chuckle, voice slurring a little. “-that gets a _lil_ tricky y’know.”

He can hear voices around them, whispered conversations as people turn to look at their table. “That’s it.” Charles bolts up, his knee bumping in the table making the silverware and the glasses clink together loudly.

“Charles,” Manon calls out.

Lucas’ brain is fuzzy enough and it makes it hard to follow everything that’s happening. In a handful of angry steps, Charles is grabbing Lucas by the arm, fingers digging into his bicep. “Don’t _touch_ me,” he protests, and he tries snatching his arm away but to no avail. Charles is taller and quicker, and he hoists him up onto his feet, wrestling him out of his seat and on the way to the exit.

“What’s up, don’t you want everyone to know we’re a good family?”, Lucas spits out as they burst through the doors, cold air hitting his face.

“I want you to shut the fuck up!”, Charles grits out, seething. His fingers are so tight around his arm, he feels like they’re already piercing the fabric. Lucas kicks and fusses, trying to wrestle free, but he doesn’t succeed until Charles himself lets go of him, once they’re far enough from the entrance.

Lucas trips onto his own feet as gravity makes a quick work of reminding him its existence, and he nearly falls flat onto his own face.

“You just _can’t_ help it, you fucking brat,” Charles fumes, and the most Lucas can see is his tall silhouette, black and towering high above him. “Everything always has to be about you, right?”

“ _Me_?”, Lucas scoffs bitterly, and he doesn’t even care if maybe he’s yelling already. “When was anything ever about _me_? Before or after you highjacked this entire family just to make yourself feel better about your crappy life? Before or after you ruined every fucking thing with the conservatory?”

He doesn’t really know what’s happening — Charles’ hand returns onto his shoulder, tight and brutal, and next thing he knows the world starts spinning, and the gravel crunches underneath him as his body hits the ground. He rolls onto his side, groaning, trying to lift himself up.

“Charles,” a woman voice calls out in the distance, and he vaguely recognizes Manon before she comes rushing in his visual field.

“I didn’t even touch him!”, his cousin protests, taking a step back with his hands raised.

She scurries closer, brushing past Charles to crouch down to Lucas’ level. “Lucas? You okay?”

“He started this whole mess and now you’re _concerned_?”, Charles exclaims, furious.

Lucas’ face snaps up, eyes burning as he sluggishly pushes himself up on one elbow. “Go fuck yourself,” he grits out.

Charles opens his mouth to reply, but Manon is quicker. “Just get back inside!”, she snaps, throwing him a look behind her shoulder, then she helps Lucas sit up. He can hear him mumble a few things under his breath, but the blood pounding into Lucas’ ears makes it difficult for him to make up what this is about — and then he just turns onto his heels, hands fisted as he strides back inside.

“God, you’re bleeding,” Manon says, reaching for the hand he’s using to rub the arm Charles squeezed to death.

He glances down, only to find his shirt smeared with droplets of blood. “Don’t touch me,” Lucas groans snappily, snatching his hand away. “I don’t fucking need you. Go back to your fancy life with your poster family.”

She has the audacity to act like she doesn’t understand. For a moment her brow furrows interrogatively and her lips form a confused ‘o’. “Lucas, why are you being like that? I don’t understand, what’s gotten into you?”

“I’m fucking tired!”, he yells, and he hates the way his voice flinches. “I just don’t want to be a part of this shit anymore. The domaine, this family, I’m just fucking tired of not existing.”

“Oh come on, that’s not true,” Manon protests.

“Oh yeah?” he snarls dryly. “Then try to remember the last time someone acknowledged me! Even you-”

“Me? What did I do?”

She looks hurt. She doesn’t get it, she doesn’t understand. Manon from London would understand. Manon from London wouldn’t even ask something so stupid — because Manon from London was his friend. But it’s not Manon from London he’s talking to, it’s Manon from fucking Bordeaux. Manon from fucking Bordeaux who’s going to get married and who’s sitting at the table with her assholey parents.

“That’s the fucking problem!”, he shouts, the world swaying a little. “Remember when you’d bitch with me about my fucked-up fam? But now that you’re a part of it- _now,_ suddenly I’m exaggerating?”

“Lucas, calm down,” she says, voice calm and so infuriatingly quiet it makes Lucas wonder if she even heard anything at all. Maybe he needs to shout it louder, scream it, but right now he feels hot and breathless.

“They think I have the fucking hots for you!” he yells, frustration pouring out. “That’s how much they know! That’s how much they care!”

“And whose fault is that? Lucas you’ve never told them, they can’t make it up on their own!”

He wants to argue.

He wants to say that it’s because he knows — he knows he’s not loved enough to get a free pass. He knows he’s not loved enough to be gay in this family. That’s just how fucked up it is. His eyes start tingling as Manon is shuffling, rising up on her feet.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“If you touch me I swear to God-,” he grits out, just as her hand is about to settle on his shoulder.

“Lucas you’re drunk. Someone needs to take you home.”

“ _I don’t care_ ,” he yells, loud enough for his throat to hurt. Manon looks a bit shocked, but it’s dark and his vision is blurring a little around the edges. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

**MERCREDI, 22:37**

****

**JEUDI, 14:33**

Unsurprisingly enough, things didn’t improve overnight — mostly his mood.

When he woke up that morning, it was with a headache and the distinct feeling that he wanted to crawl out of his skin, which he could only guess had more to do with what had happened the night before rather than his stupid hangover. To be fair he doesn’t remember much of what was said. By him, by others. He vaguely recalls yelling, Charles dragging him outside, and then screaming some more at Manon.

Oh and, his mother looking at him like she wouldn’t have minded a life sentence for smothering him as a baby. Pretty much.

Outside of that, it’s a bit blurry. Since he refused to go home with Manon they called an Uber at one point, and that’s how he was pitifully brought back home, probably offering his driver quite a story to recount to later clients.

Since then he’s spent most of his morning so far in his bedroom, trying to block out the rest of the universe, from the sounds coming up to his bedroom, the muffled conversations outside, the car doors slamming shut every now and then and, to put the cherry on top, Eliott’s texts piling up. It’s embarrassing. He can survive the humiliation of putting on a show in the middle of a restaurant and in front of his family, he can survive making a fool of himself and proving everyone that he’s not only useless but a nuisance to them — it’s not like they didn’t already firmly believe each and every single one of these things prior to last night.

But going through his texts from last night is too much to handle at the moment. It’s not in his nature to come crying after shit hit the fan, mostly because if he’s doing that after every little vexation from his family, he’ll never do anything else. But last night, he did. And maybe, perhaps, it’s not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things — but to him it is. He’s known Eliott for a handful of days and still, it feels like he’s unloaded already so much on him he can’t possibly think, even for a minute, that Eliott would consider him as anything but a whiny-ass portion of damaged goods.

So he hasn’t reply yet.

Truth is, he kept postponing it, over and over again, one hour after the next. It’s really not helping that he looks like he tried to fight with someone twice his size when, to the best of his knowledge, the most he fought was against the ground. He has a bruise on the right side of his face, a purple spot covered with thin red scratches climbing up his cheekbone, and the palm of his right hand has a nasty cut that he spent a significant amount of time trying to clean by himself.

(He gave up at last. If he has to die from an infection of sorts, let it be.)

When staying in his bedroom starts getting unbearable, he creeps outside to take a walk, and inevitably he finds himself in the old shed, hovering next to the Someca. The bruise on his hand starts tingling when he hoists himself up on the tractor, and he wrinkles his nose in discomfort. Truth is, it’s not even all that deep, or all that big — it’s just the icing on the cake. He drops himself ungracefully onto the ratty seat, grumpily peering at the bandage he single-handedly, and rather haphazardly, put on his hand, when a metallic clink, followed by a couple of faint rustles, make his head snap to the side.

“Oh hey, calm down it’s just me,” Michel huffs, emerging from behind what was probably a century old car wreck gathering dust in a corner.

Lucas doesn’t have the mental strength to pretend he’s in a sunshine mood, so he simply mutters a vague ‘hi’ under his breath. The old _chef de culture_ makes his way towards Lucas’ rusty seat, sliding between a dusty shelving unit and a pile of dusty seed bags, wiping his hands on his pants as he moves closer.

“Sulking much?”, he asks conversationally, resting an elbow on the back wheel of the Someca.

“I’m not sulking,” Lucas childishly retorts, glaring holes into the steering wheel. Which is stupid because he’s not enough of a moron to ignore that it’s absolutely what he’s doing.

“Sure. Not like you have a history of hiding here,” Michel replies, drawling a little. They stay quiet for a second, then the man reaches out to toy with the steering wheel, giving it a tug. “You want a ride? Like the good old times?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Thanks, I’m good,” he mutters. He rubs his forehead a little, shuffling onto his seat. “I just need to… I don’t know, stay away for a while.”

Michel seems to ponder his answer, then he heaves a sigh. “Whatever they’ve put you through this time, I’m sure it’s not worth the mental gymnastics you’re doing right now.”

Lucas glances at him. He can’t imagine anyone at the table last night gossiping about what went down with him, so the fact that he seems to just know raises a few questions that he doesn’t have much energy for. “Maybe I’m the one who messed up,” he says half-heartedly.

Objectively he knows he did. But he can’t feel bad, and he doesn’t know what to do with all that.

“You go see dad often right?”, he asks after a while.

“Yeah, I try to,” Michel nods.

“Do you think he could, maybe, I don’t know, maybe come back live here?”

Michel takes a moment to answer, shifting against the Someca to rest his back against the big old tire, crossing his arms on his chest. “I think he could. But I don’t think he should.” Lucas’ eyes snap down, meeting Michel’s, and he gives a small shrug. “Look, Lucas, I’ll be honest with you, I’ve known your dad since he was born, and I’ve always thought he was a great kid. But this place… It’s not for him. He’s not happy here.”

Lucas’ jaws roll underneath his skin. “But it’s supposed to be his place,” he says, staring down at the dusty dashboard. “It’s always been supposed to be his home and his job. If anyone’s supposed to be here, it’s him.”

“But it’s not always the way it happens,” Michel says, somewhat gently. “I’ve worked here for almost sixty years, kid. Sixty years. When I first came here it was to pick up the grapes like everybody else, and if your cousin doesn’t push me out the door any time soon, I’d like to stay here for as long as I’m capable.” He pauses, letting out a small snort as he shakes his head. “Point is, I’ve seen everything about this family. The good, the bad, the ugly. And if I have to be honest… When your dad told me he wanted to leave Saint A to find a job in Paris, I encouraged him to do it. I encouraged him to stand up to your grandfather and to get the fuck out of here, because that’s what you do when someone’s suffering. You just don’t let them crumble till they can’t take it anymore.”

Lucas nods quietly, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. “You say that like he can just fuck off under the sun.”

“In a way yeah,” the man huffs, giving a casual shrug. “Sometimes it’s just about ripping the band-aid.”

It sounds so easy put like that. Almost doable. Just hit the road and start afresh, wherever he wants, but Lucas knows better. Or at least he thinks he does. It’s a lot more complicated than just… _that_. “So what’s plan B?,” he asks. “What then?”

“Well he seemed pretty excited about his new guide,” Michel says, and Lucas glances at him, blinking once or twice. “I’d call that a solid plan B.”

“Oh, yeah. The guide,” he hears himself say. “Right.”

Because it’s about his dad. And his dad already has a plan B. Maybe he’s no better than the rest after all, for letting him only be an afterthought as well. He stares at the dashboard in silence for a few seconds, until the man pulls himself away from the Someca. “Anyway. I’ve gotta go.”

Lucas clears his throat. “How are things going? Do you think we can save this year?”

Michel turns back as he’s about to step outside. “Hard to tell,” he admits. “Not the worst year we’ve had, but we’ve started too early and we might have to wait a bit for the last parcels.”

Lucas hums in response as he leaves, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden as he glances down at his hand. He can’t stay in this shed all day long, but staring at the ceiling of his bedroom isn’t any more appealing — maybe he should fuck around a bit and hit Fronsac, or ask Baz if he’s free to hang out, but he doesn’t want to explain what happened and good-hearted as the guy is, he _will_ ask.

Same goes if he tries to facetime Yann. Eventually he drags himself out of the shed, stepping out under the heavy summer heat before turning back to roll the door closed. The air is dry and painfully hot, and it’s not long, barely a couple of steps, before Lucas feels his tee-shirt starting to cling to his skin with sweat.

_Fanta-fucking-stic_.

“Lucas,” a familiar voice calls out just as he nears the on-site worker cabins, and Lucas closes his eyes briefly when he hears footsteps rushing behind him. “ _Lucas.”_

He stops in his tracks, turning reluctantly as Eliott strides in his direction. And here he thought he was busy with the boys, he was greatly mistaken. They are alone as far as Lucas is concerned; the trees hide them from one side of the property and the outbuilding housing the winery on the other. Eliott walks up to him, looking pale and vaguely upset, and he only pauses when he acknowledges Lucas’ bruise on his face.

“What the fuck happened last night?”, he asks with a concerned frown. His eyes snap down onto Lucas’ bandaged hand, and Lucas shoves it into the pocket of his shorts.

“Family problems,” he mumbles, laconic.

“So that’s it?”, Eliott scoffs. “Lucas for fuck’s sake you freaked me out, don’t you think I get to have an answer?”

“I shouldn’t have texted you, alright?” Lucas snaps. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

A flash of annoyance passes through Eliott’s _oh-so-expressive_ eyes. “I don’t care that you texted me, hell I’m happy you did it, but you could have at least told me you were okay,” he says. “I was scared for you, do you realize that?”

It’s Lucas’ turn to feel annoyed. “Why, because if I die you won’t have your summer fling anymore?”

Eliott opens his mouth and closes it, his face falling as Lucas’ words hit. “Why are you being like that?,” he asks. “I was worried because I care about you! Because I don’t want anything bad to happen to you!”

“Well guess fucking what,” he bites back, spreading one arm, “bad shit happens all the time around here!”

“You can’t do that,” Eliott protests. “You can’t call me crying because no one cares and then be mad at me for freaking out. And for that matter, I’ve never thought of you as a summer fling, but nice to know it’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you think about me.”

He shakes his head, looking hurt as he steps back.

Lucas stares, immobile, as he starts walking away, and he hates it, he truly _does_. He hates the way Eliott’s shoulders are slumping, he hates the way his voice sounded just a second ago, he hates the way his face fell when Lucas said that thing about him, about them — he hates everything, and mostly himself.

“Fuck,” Lucas hisses through his gritted teeth, and he gives a harsh kick into a stone that he sends crashing a couple of meters away.

He finds himself following the path Eliott took a handful of seconds ago, walking along the cabins until he reaches the last one on the row. He would probably be confused about the one he and his friends are rooming in if he wasn’t already spotting a pair of beaten up Vans by the door, that he guesses belongs to one of the three.

“Eliott,” he calls out from outside. “ _Eliott_.”

There’s no answer, so he pulls the door open, light pouring in the dimly lit room. Eliott is sitting on the bed that is the farthest from the door, his leg bouncing up and down as he’s scrolling down his phone, his hands tight around it.

“Eliott, I’m sorry,” he hears himself saying from the doorway. There’s no answer, except for a bitter snort that comes from Eliott, and Lucas takes a small intake of oxygen before stepping inside, door shutting itself behind him. “I’m not… I’m not in the right headspace at the moment. It’s a shit excuse, I know, but I’m sorry I freaked you out, I didn’t mean to. Usually I’m trying to sort that shit out by myself.”

Eliott looks up, eyes darting on him. “That’s the _thing_ , I don’t want you to,” he replies, a tad dryly, and then he pauses, expression softening a little, if only in a sad way. “I know… I know we haven’t known each other for long, and all but… Yeah. Sometimes I feel like it’s been much longer and then…”

_Then you called him a summer fling,_ Lucas’ brain supplies unhelpfully. And truth is, Lucas feels bad. Probably worse than he can feel about the whole ordeal from the night before in this moment. Lucas looked down, eyes falling onto his bandaged hand. He rubs the injured spot with his thumb for a second, then he looks back at Eliott. It might be his home for only three weeks, but standing in there is the closest from being in Eliott’s private space he can be. His eyes trail over the stash of clothes that probably needs to be washed, right next to his bed, a worn-out edition of some book standing precariously at the top, a backpack thrown at the foot. Eliott’s apparently the kind to kick all the sheets and covers at the foot of the bed when he’s running hot during the night, and there’s a snapback or a baseball cap he’s never seen him wearing peeking out from an Adidas travel bag.

It makes him wonder what Eliott might have seen the night he brought him home. Probably not much. It’d have been probably very different if it had happened in his own flat.

“I wish you’d met me in London,” he admits.

Eliott twists his mouth a little. “I wish you’d met me in Paris.”

But neither of this happened, he thinks, and he doesn’t know why suddenly, today, it’s rubbing them the wrong way when it wasn’t even the problem in the first place. Or maybe it was. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just one more thing he doesn’t like about this place — the fact it’s tied to the temporality of his and Eliott’s relationship, whatever it should be called. The fact that there’s an expiration date to it all, as if the universe is getting off giving him things and taking them back over and over again.

He ends up sitting next to Eliott on his bed, and they stay quiet for a moment.

“What would we be doing if we were in Paris right now?”, Lucas asks eventually.

Eliott ponders his answer, but Lucas notices that his leg has stopped nervously bouncing up, and his grip has relaxed around his phone. “I don’t know about you, but I think I’d take a nap,” he says. “Catching up on some sleep after staying awake all night long to get an answer and all.”

He wrinkles his nose. He deserves this, he supposes.

“I guess I could use a nap too.”

**JEUDI, 16:48**

“Do you sometimes think we might have never met?”

Eliott’s voice sounds quiet in the silent cabin, and Lucas slowly blinks his eyes open, craning up his neck to look up. For someone who wanted to take a nap, Eliott doesn’t sleep much — but he’s not mad. For the better part of the past two hours he’s been drifting in and out of sleep, whenever Eliott would shift in bed, or whenever he’d start talking, and although Lucas never considered himself a heavy cuddler, he doesn’t mind, right now, being squeezed in-between Eliott’s body and the wall.

His brain is a bit fuzzy as he tries to catch up.

“Hmm. Not really,” he mumbles, shifting his legs a little. His head, propped up onto Eliott’s shoulder, makes the bruise on his cheek tingle faintly, but oh well, he can most certainly survive this. Truth is, he doesn’t want to leave just yet and he doesn’t think Eliott minded the fact he’s probably long overstayed. “It’s way too depressing.”

Eliott hums in response, eyes still fixated on the ceiling, and he starts again trailing his fingers up and down Lucas’ bicep like he was doing before. It’s soothing and weirdly comforting, and Lucas wonders if Eliott even knows he’s doing it or if he simply lets his hands fidget without really paying attention — it’s something he’s noticed about him, his hands are often in motion, if not always.

After a minute or two he feels his eyelids getting heavy again, and he considers drifting back to sleep when Eliott admits: “Maybe you’re right.” Lucas doesn’t open his eyes but Eliott doesn’t seem to mind particularly. “Sometimes it just freaks me out to think about stuff I may have missed.”

Lucas smirks lazilu, eyes still shut. “It’s fine because I am by far the best thing that’s ever happened to you anyway.”

He’s expecting a huff or even a pinch at this point, but Eliott gets weirdly quiet, and after a few second Lucas opens his eyes, looking up. Eliott glances back from the corner of his eye. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eliott says, twisting his mouth a little.

Lucas knows he should have felt flattered, but he lets out a quiet snort. “Nah I’m not. But it’s cute though.” He rolls onto his back, or at least as much as the wall allows him to, and Eliott has to let go of him.

They rearrange themselves on Eliott’s small bed, Eliott twisting around onto his side, facing Lucas, his head propped up on his folded elbow; it’s all a tight fit, but it’s on the good side of a tight fit. “I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t think it was true,” he counters. “I’ve never been with a guy before, it does matter to me.”

Lucas blinks once or twice, a bit taken aback. “So I’m, like, your first guy?”

Eliott seems to ponder his answer. “In a way,” he admits after a moment. “I mean, it’s complicated.”

He seems ready to elaborate, but Lucas reaches out, traveling a hand up his thigh before wrapping an arm around his waist. “Hey it’s fine,” he says, looking into Eliott’s otherworldly eyes, “you don’t have to justify yourself. Just maybe next time, tell me if you’re new at something. That’s the kind of things that matters too.”

Somewhere between Eliott going down on him in the office and Eliott looking taken aback by Lucas’ bold statements in bed, he’s starting to gather where Eliott’s sexual records stand, but he’s not sure he wanted to explore that thought in more details right now. Mostly because it feels like it’s not his place to theorize. Also because he’s starting to feel guilty that maybe, just maybe, it might have been Eliott’s first time — or second, or third.

Eliott nods, a soft smile lighting up his features and wiping off the quiet air of worry he had before. “Yeah, okay. But you know, it was fine all along, uh?” He brushes a strand of hair away from Lucas’ face, fingers trailing down his face.

Lucas leans into the touch. “Good.”

He closes his eyes, enjoying the softness of Eliott’s hand running through his hair, and for a moment the cabin goes back to silent. Eliott’s hand trails down his shoulder, his arm, reaching for his bandaged hand settled on his lower back. “Will you tell me what happened?”, he asks after a moment, tangling their fingers together.

Lucas doesn’t open his eyes. “I was mad. I was drunk,” he sums up. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Eliott chuckle quietly, but it doesn’t sound like he’s laughing at him. Lucas feels his thumb brushing the top of his hand through the bandage. “I figured that part.”

After a moment Lucas blinks his eyes open, glancing up at Eliott, a little cross-eyed, then down where Eliott is holding his hand. “I just hate it. All of it,” he says. Funnily enough, the thing he hates even more than that is the thought that _he’s said that about a million times before._ One would think that some time along the way things would start to improve a little, but no. They never do. “The way everyone’s just putting up a front, but deep down no one gives a shit, or at least not the kind of shit that matters.”

“I give a shit,” Eliott points out, and when Lucas looks up he gives a sheepish smile that makes him huff fondly.

Lucas shifts a little, sneaking a knee in-between Eliott’s; the bed springs creak as they both adjust, and Lucas finds himself even closer to him, noses practically touching. “Last week, the night before I came to work with you guys,” he says, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Charles and I, we had this stupid fight. Just, you know, the same old bullshit in a way. But I was just… I don’t know. I just didn’t want to deal with him anymore. I was ready to call it quits and get back to London, whatever my mom would say.”

Eliott studies him in silence for a second, and he lets go of Lucas’ hand to bring his own closer to his face. “Why did you stay?”

_You. You made me stay_. Lucas looks into his eyes, gaze dropping a little, and his eyelids flutter shut as he presses a gentle kiss onto Eliott’s lips. It’s not heated, not even remotely, but it’s soft and natural, lips slowly moving together, Eliott’s hand cupping cheek and, embracing him whole, the feeling of just _Eliott_. It goes right to Lucas’ head, making it spin faintly as they part.

“Go on a date with me,” Eliott whispers after a moment, tracing Lucas’ bottom lip with his thumb, and for a moment Lucas is at loss of an answer. Not quite taken aback, not quite surprised, not quite stunned — just a bit out of it, enough for the words to glide over, not really sinking in until Eliott utters a small: “Please.”

_Date_. Going on a date means dating. Dating is the first step of a relationship.

But Eliott is leaving in a couple of days, and Lucas is going back to London just after that. All they have is barely more than a week left, and then-

_Don’t think. Just do what makes you happy._

And Eliott makes him happy. The happiest he’s been in a while.

“Yeah,” he hears himself saying. “Okay. Yeah.”

**VENDREDI, 17:28**

****

**VENDREDI, 23:39**

Lucas already knows he doesn’t like the idea the moment Eliott instructs him to kill the engine, six or seven kilometers away from Saint A — literally in the middle of nowhere. He’s told him to follow a dirt trail snaking around a mildly gloomy water tower and a field, and now Lucas wonders if he simply shouldn’t have put a veto when it was still time for it and Eliott was still nose into his phone GPS.

“Okay, you can get out,” Eliott calls out from outside. It’s been an eternity since he slipped out of the car to do God knows what, and in the meantime Lucas has been absolutely forbidden to open his eyes.

He doesn’t budge, face still buried into the crouch of his elbow. “Can I open my eyes now?”

“Not yet,” Eliott laughs.

Lucas groans to himself. Outside he can make out Eliott’s quiet footsteps as he’s rounding the car, just before he hears the driver door opening.

“How am I supposed to get out if I can’t open my eyes?”, he asks stubbornly, with maybe a little bit of irritation already. He can’t help it. It’s the whole situation that makes him uneasy, and he knows Eliott is very, _very_ excited about that whole date thing, but he’s really, _really_ close to calling it a night at the moment.

“I’m going to guide you,” Eliott says, easily, like he’s anticipated it since the beginning. He gives a small tap on Lucas’ thigh to get him moving, and Lucas pulls himself away from the steering wheel with a sigh, eyes still shut.

That’s dumb, he thinks begrudgingly. Eliott’s help wasn’t strictly needed to hop down, but it’s the very least he can do. As soon as the driver’s door is shut, there are hands covering his eyes, startling him a little, and he doesn’t know if Eliott doesn’t mention it to spare Lucas’ feelings or because he’s far too excited to pay attention to that sort of details — he guesses the latter.

“Okay, here we go,” Eliott announces, stretching the last word, and Lucas is positive he can hear a smile in his voice.

It’s… endearing. Really. Truly. But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re lost God knows where, and Lucas’ feet feel heavy and unsteady as Eliott motions him to the side, and then on the spot. Slowly, almost carefully, he takes his hands off his eyes and Lucas blinks a couple of times.

There’s… literally nothing. Ahead of them, there are just kilometers and kilometers of fields, and eventually, maybe, if Lucas squints really hard, a vague thing lost in the distance that can pass as trees. “If you wanted to freak me out, you really didn’t have to go that far,” Lucas points out dryly. “We didn’t even need to take the car for that matter.”

Eliott sighs. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” he huffs into his ear, and he settles his hands onto Lucas’ shoulders.

“I _am_ afraid of the dark,” Lucas retorts, and when Eliott pulls away a little, he looks to the side with a sneer. “What? Is that not attractive to you?”

Eliott seems conflicted. “You… I mean, are you? For real?”

Lucas scoffs. “Yes I am. For real.”

He winces. “Shit, no. It wasn’t… I mean. I didn’t know, I just thought it would be cool.”

“Cool,” Lucas repeats flatly. Cool. He’s trying, he really is, but he doesn’t quite understand what can qualify as ‘cool’ in bringing his date, here, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the _night_. He’s not sure what Eliott sees in the dark, but maybe he’s making a face in particular, because Eliott fidgets a little on the spot, as if he’s trying to sort out what’s urgent at the moment.

_Okay don’t ruin it_.

He’s messed up enough this week. In the past two weeks actually. He can’t afford to ruin this with Eliott, not now. He takes a deep inhale, trying to calm down the knot in his stomach and to shake the feeling that at least a few hundred pairs of eyes are watching them somewhere and inspecting their every move.

“So really, what’s uh,” Lucas pauses, then clears his throat. No one can say he doesn’t like Eliott. And like, a huge fucking deal. _No one_. “What’s the plan?”

“I was trying to find a quiet spot. And somewhere we could just be together,” Eliott says.

“So you chose a field. At night.”

Eliott shoots him an unimpressed glance. “If you just turned around you could start seeing I’m trying to make sense of this.”

Lucas pivots to the side. It’s still very, very dark, but he sees that Eliott has displayed a blanket on the hood of the Jeep. He turns back to Eliott, who sheepishly gestures with his hand towards the sky. Full of fucking stars.

_Of course it is_.

For a few seconds Lucas almost forgets to freak out as he stares up, eyes travelling a bit dreamily from one star to the next, tiny sparkles littering the deep infinite.

“We can do something else if really you aren’t feeling good,” Eliott says, clearing his throat a little as he steps back closer.

With his head still thrown back, Lucas hums in response. “No it’s… I mean it’s gonna be fine but you better not leave me here. Not even for a second.”

Eliott chuckles quietly, pulling him close until he feels the warmth of Eliott’s chest softly pressed against his back. Yeah. He can do that. He can just man the fuck up and-

Spend however long in the middle of nowhere. At night.

_With Eliott_ , a voice reminds helpfully. Yes. With Eliott. The knot in his stomach relaxes a little as he brings his hand to gently rub the back of Eliott’s hand resting on his shoulder. “C’mon,” Eliott whispers gently, and Lucas tears his eyes away from the sky to follow Eliott back to the car.

Unfairly tall as he is, Eliott can hoist himself up on the hood, but Lucas chooses not to put himself through another humiliation for the night, and simply climbs on the front bumper before twisting around to sit down. It feels a bit awkward, laying down like that, but Eliott doesn’t seem much bothered as he adjusts the blanket, tucking it behind the Jeep’s wipers before settling down. Lucas glances at him, an arm propped behind his head, his long legs dangling off the hood, and off-handedly mirrors his position.

Eliott turns his face towards him, reaching for Lucas’ hand. “Aren’t you cozy like that?”

Lucas gives him a look and snorts, entwining their fingers. ‘Okay yes. But I’m pretty sure this is how most horror movies start, and I’m way too hot for that shit.”

“You’re really, really freaking out, uh?”

“I told you! What? You don’t like it? It’s not sexy, uh?”

Eliott laughs quietly, tugging at their locked hands until they’re resting on his stomach. “I was just gonna say it’s a bit surprising coming from you, but…”

“Yeah tell me about it,” Lucas grumbles. “This isn’t exactly the kind of surprise I have in mind when I’m thinking of surprising you.”

Eliott seems interested. He shuffles a few centimeters closer, until most of his side is softly pressing against Lucas’. “Oh yeah? And what did you have in mind?”

Lucas shrugs, slipping an arm behind his head and looking up at the sky. “Dunno. Maybe the piano or something. That’s the kind of surprise that looks fancy.”

Eliott stays quiet for a second, and Lucas can feel his eyes on him. “I really want to hear you play,” he says eventually. “And not just on Instagram.”

Lucas gives a lopsided smile, turning his head back to Eliott. “We’ll find a way to do that.”

Another shrug. Another thing Eliott would be able to witness if they had met somewhere else. He shipped himself the piano he used when he lived on the domaine to London. It had costed an arm on the moment, but he had wanted to go through with it, back when he was still absolutely sure he could be done with Saint A for as long as he stayed away.

He really thought it wrong, apparently.

Eliott’s eyes are soft and Lucas finds himself leaning in, resting his forehead against Eliott’s and brushing their noses together.

“What is it like?”, he asks after a moment. “Your life in Paris.”

Eliott seems to ponder his answer. “Kind of boring. I’m starting off uni in two, three weeks. I, uh. I had to retake my terminal year. Lots of stuff going on.” Lucas looks down, where Eliott is tracing soft patterns on the back of his hand with his index. “I write pretentious movies where I use strong words like dichotomy and symbolism and obscurantism and I…” He pauses and starts laughing. “Yeah. All of that.”

Lucas smirks in the dark. “I’ve fallen for a few clichés before,” he says conversationally. “Guess I was lacking the hipster one.”

Eliott groans and tries to pull his hand away but Lucas doesn’t let him. “I’m bringing you on a fucking date under the stars and you insult me.”

“I’d never dare insult you,” Lucas grins. He rolls onto his side, carefully, and entangles their hands to travel his own up Eliott’s chest. “Best thing of this summer and all, remember?” Eliott hums in response, and Lucas huffs quietly, fingers grazing his chin to turn his face his way. “Don’t pout on our first date,” he whispers.

The corners of Eliott’s mouth twitch up a little, like he’s trying not to smile, but it doesn’t seem to be working and soon his face breaks into a smile. It’s so bright, so warm, that for a moment Lucas kind of forgets it’s dark as a pit and the cold night air biting his cheeks. Eliott brushes their lips together, dropping a short peck onto Lucas’ lips, then Lucas pulls him in for a proper kiss. Long and languid, like they have all the time in the world for that.

Maybe they do.

Maybe tonight.

His fingers tangle into Eliott’s hair a little as they deepen the kiss, tongues twisting and exploring, lips moving together and hands softly wandering. That’s what being with Eliott is like — it’s kind of soft. Not soft, _soft_. Just _kind of_ soft. The kind of soft that-

“Did you hear that?”, he breathes out, breaking apart brutally.

Eliott looks a little confused. “Hear what?”

Lucas stays immobile for another couple of seconds, listening carefully. There’s a breeze coming from the valley, but it’s certainly not enough to do much noise. He’s practically sure he’s heard something. Like a scratch. Like something… something scrapping. A chill runs up his spine and he shifts onto the hood.

He’s going to lose his fucking mind. All that for Eliott’s beautiful eyes.

_Fucking hell._

“Nothing,” he says, trying to sound casual. He forces a smile, and just as he’s about to lean down for some more kissing, he hears it again. A rustle. Something scrapping. He pulls back sharply, practically bolting back. “Okay you _must_ have heard it this time.”

“I swear I-” Another rustle. Eliott frowns, and Lucas sees the moment he perks up on it because he sits up. “Okay, yeah. I did hear that. Maybe that’s just an animal.”

Lucas gives him a look. _Fun_. Because he totally plans on dying, trampled by a family of boars in the middle of the night. In a fucking field. By a creepy water tower. “You’re Parisian,” he hisses, “why are you _not_ freaking out?”

Eliott stays quiet for a second. “I’m… uh, often out at night.”

Another scratching sound. They’re going to fucking die. If there’s an afterlife, he’s never going to forgive that goddamn pretty face of a Parisian hipster. He swings his legs over the side of the hood, reaching for his phone to turn up the flashlight. 

“It’s coming from your car,” Eliott says from the front, just as Lucas is hopping down.

He’s rounding the vehicle, listening carefully as he inspects the Jeep ~~s~~ with his flashlight, but there’s nothing in sight. He crouches down, heart pounding inside of his ribcage when he points the beam under the car. Nothing.

Fucking hell, where does that sound come ~~s~~ from? At this point he just wants to grab his keys and hit the road home, fucking stars be dam-

Just as he’s standing back up, there’s a _thud,_ and then something jumping against the window from inside, and Lucas yelps in surprise as he loses his balance. His ass hits the ground, and besides the blood pounding into his ears he vaguely hears Eliott calling out his name.

“Oh my God, Champ,” Lucas pants, still flat on the ground, a hand pressed to his chest.

The dog is staring at him excitedly from the backseat, her paws hitting the car window as she keeps jumping on the spot. Eliott joins him on the side of the vehicle, and he’s nice enough not to laugh at him as he offers him a hand to stand up.

“What are you doing here, girl?”, he says once Lucas is back up on his two feet. He opens the backdoor to let her out and Lucas uses this as an advantage to begrudgingly dust off the back of his jeans.

Champagne’s first decision is to immediately start running away, disappearing in a blink of an eye before either of them can even make a move. Eliott turns a horrified look on Lucas, who simply shrugs. “Don’t worry she’s gonna come back,” he waves, taking a step or two.

He slams the backdoor shut and ends up resting his back against the car, still trying to catch his breath.

“So, coming here was really a bad idea,” Eliott says, sounding sheepish as he mirrors his position.

Lucas twists his mouth. “Look, on paper it looks fucking awesome. It’s just not for me.” He pulls Eliott closer, just as Champagne is running back from the front of the car, her tongue happily hanging off her open mouth. “Look at that little devil. You really are a goddamn menace, you know that, uh?”

Eliott smiles, huffing a little as he rests his temple on top of Lucas’ head. Champagne sits down at their feet, fidgeting on the spot just like every time she’s about to jump. “How do you think she climbed in?”

Lucas shrugs. “She does that all the time. One second of inattention, and poof, before you know she’s hiding behind the front seats.” He shakes his head. “She used to follow my grandfather everywhere, she kept the habit after he died.”

Just as he was expecting it, Champagne starts jumping, flinging herself in Eliott’s legs, until he caves in and crouches down to pet her. A real attention whore, Lucas snorts to himself. He wouldn’t mind Eliott’s hands on him either, except not here. Creepy scratching sounds or not.

“What was that thing you said about you hanging out at night a lot?”, he asks off-handedly.

Eliott looks behind his shoulder, scratching Champagne behind her floppy brown ears. “I just like to be on my own from time to time. Let’s just say it’s… I mean it’s easier to find empty places and nice spots with no one around when it’s at night.”

“Especially in Paris.”

“Especially in Paris.”

Lucas steps closer, crouching down as well. Champagne immediately turns to him, happily waggling her tail, and for a moment they both pet her in silence. “We can go home,” Eliott says. “I mean, on the domaine.”

But they can’t be together on the domaine. Lucas has a feeling that Eliott is all too aware of that at the moment. Well technically they can. They did before. But he’d rather not try his luck by bringing Eliott at the house tonight, and the number of their hiding spots has been drastically reduced by the fact that it’s late at night and Lucas has just blatantly made a fool of himself.

There are better ways to end a first date that has barely started.

Champagne gives a lick across Lucas’ hand.

“It’s fine, we can stay a bit,” he says.

Eliott’s smile goes straight to Lucas’ stomach. “I swear I’ll protect you from all the bad things that could happen.”

Lucas gives him a look, unimpressed. “Then I’m truly feeling better,” he deadpans. “What are you planning to do? Blast dubstep until it goes away?”

Eliott’s eyes narrow. “How do you know about the dubstep?”

Lucas huffs. “Lucky guess,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

It’s not true. The first time he and Eliott hung out at the bar he had that notepad with a few stickers on it, and one of them was from that group Yann forced him to go watch live in London two, three years ago. A disaster for his poor ears and an experience he’s vowed to never repeat, but apparently…

Okay. Maybe he might.

“Look, don’t be picky about my weapon of choice,” Eliott retorts. “If it saves your ass, it saves your ass.”

Lucas smirks. “I mean yes, technically. But we both know you have some interest in that ass as well, so really, who are you helping in the end?”

Eliott groans and stands up brutally, startling Champagne, and for a second Lucas and the dog look up at him with a bit of confusion. “Let’s go home, romantism is dead.”

**SAMEDI, 00:41**

****


	3. Week III, Eliott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the late update, but i still hope you guys will enjoy it 💖🙏🏻

**SAMEDI, 14:36**

**DIMANCHE, 07:42**

“Oh hey, not so fast, you’re not going anywhere,” Sofiane exclaims, voice still rough with sleep as he bolts out of bed. The sheets tangle around his legs and he nearly trips and falls down in the process — truly a sight to behold.

If Eliott hadn’t already frozen on the spot, hand on the door handle of the cabin, he’d be tempted to laugh, really. Except that he’s not laughing. Next to him Idriss is shuffling awake, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand as he’s sitting up on his squeaky bed.

“Dude you were supposed to wake the fuck up,” Sofiane grumbles, leaning to the side to glare at Idriss.

He shrugs with a groan. “I fell back asleep.”

“What’s the problem?”, Eliott says, clearing his throat a little. He knows it’s a bad strategy right off the bat — he truly does. There aren’t many scenarios and excuses he can make up to explain the fact that he’s not only awake on their first morning off but also fully clothed, his backpack flung over his shoulder, ready to leap out without so much as a goodbye.

If it sounds like he’s being an asshole, maybe it’s because he partially feels like he is.

In the meantime, Idriss has left his bed. “The problem is that you dragged us here but all you’ve done since day one was to sneak out on us,” he says, folding his arms onto his chest.

Eliott squirms a little. “That’s not true,” he protests weakly, and he hates it because _it is fucking true_.

God. And here he thought he was being somewhat… sneaky. With all his bullshit excuses and stupid pretexts. He thought he was _getting away with it_ , when in fact it just looks like… Like they let him get away with it.

Until they no longer do, apparently.

Sofiane seems to have followed the same train of thoughts. “The times when you went to Saint-A. to ‘work on your movie’,” he says, and when Eliott turns back to face him, he pauses his obnoxious finger counting to mimic the quotation marks.

“That was one time,” Eliott protests.

Sofiane ignores him. “The times when you’d just go smoking and _oh surprise_ it takes two hours, the times when you were too tired to tag along-”

“Don’t forget that time he pretended to be sick,” Idriss adds unhelpfully.

“No wait,” Eliott tries.

Sofiane snorts dryly. “A big, big moment that one.”

“ _Big_ acting moment,” Idriss nods, and between the two physically cornering him, Eliott finds himself not knowing where to look for help. His head keeps snapping left and right with each new addition like he’s caught up in the middle of a tennis game. “Bro, don’t become an actor, stick to behind the camera.”

Eliott struggles to swallow his saliva. Fucking hell, this isn’t how he’s planned this morning to go. _At all_. He legit wants to crawl out of his own skin right now, but the worst part is… Even with all of his worst betrayals laid out in front of him, even if he _does_ feel terrible about it, even if he _wants_ to apologize and make up for it all, he’s also thinking about Lucas.

Lucas, who’s waiting for him behind the domaine.

And if that doesn’t make him the worst friend in the whole wide world, then he doesn’t know what does.

“I… I’m so sorry, but I really, really can’t talk right now,” he says, nervously chewing on his bottom lip.

“It’s not even 8,” Idriss huffs. “Where the fuck do you need to be?”

He squirms a little more on the spot, hand tightening onto the shoulder strap of his backpack. There’s no way around it. He’s got to say something. Making up a shit excuse won’t cut it this time. “I… I have to meet someone.”

He avoids Idriss’ look, staring at the floor instead. Maybe he’s praying for it to open under his feet and swallow him for good. Maybe. Who’s to know anyway?

His brain is a fucking flipper ball at this point.

“The person you’ve been fucking,” Idriss says bluntly.

Eliott’s blood freezes into his veins, and his eyes dart up onto his friend. Fuck. _Fuck_. He feels his cheeks heating up.

“Dude,” Sofiane sighs, sounding annoyed. But he doesn’t seem surprised by what Idriss said.

Worse, when he turns back, he only finds his other friend vaguely glaring at Idriss. So they talked. Together. About him. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise after everything they just slapped him with, but still it stings a little. And maybe more than a little.

 _What are you upset about_ , a voice chides him in his brain. They have the right to be pissed, he’s just dug this hole for himself. And maybe he’d be tempted to try and laugh it off if it wasn’t so… So personal. In a way neither Idriss or Sofiane seem to understand it.

“I can’t talk about it,” Eliott says.

“You can’t talk about it,” Sofiane repeats slowly. “To us.”

 _Your best friends,_ he doesn’t add, but still Eliott hears it. It’s implied.

“Oh God,” Idriss groans, “he’s screwing the boss.”

Eliott’s face snaps back onto him, his eyes widening. “I’m sorry _what_?”

“You’re screwing the boss,” he repeats. “Man I should have bet money on that one.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Eliott sputters. He’s torn between laughing and crying. Laughing because they’ve missed the mark by a million kilometers. Crying because if he’s being honest they’re getting closer to from Lucas and he doesn’t like that. “I’m not sleeping with the boss,” he says, trying to sound convincing.

“Then what’s with all the sneaking around,” Sofiane insists.

 _Just kill me already_ , he groans to himself.

He swears his head is about to explode.

He can’t just tell them. No way. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them with that kind of secret, it’s that _it’s not his secret_. He can’t just out his… Well, whatever Lucas is at the moment. Even if it’s ‘just’ Idriss and Sofiane, that means including two more people into the equation, and he can’t risk Idriss blurting out that Lucas is having sex with boys in the middle of a conversation with Emma.

“I can’t explain,” he says, swallowing audibly, and he finds himself eyeing the door desperately. “I can only say that it has to stay that way.”

“But if it’s not the boss-,” Idriss starts, but Eliott doesn’t leave him the time to elaborate.

He pulls the door open. “I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll make it up to you guys,” he says hurriedly, and it vaguely looks like he’s running for his life as he’s dashing outside despite Sofiane’s protests.

The worst part is that he absolutely means it. There’s nothing he wants more than to make things right with them and be honest with them, but at the moment he can’t, because being honest means telling them about him, about Lucas, and he just can’t.

So much for a fun, relaxing day out, he thinks begrudgingly. He drags himself through the narrow path that trails further down on the domaine, until he reaches the far end of the property and the manual gate. It’s really fucking shitty of the universe to come biting him in the ass when things are getting good. Despite Lucas freaking out — which was kind of really endearing actually —, the night before was really fun and just… good. After getting back on the domaine and releasing Champagne, they spent two more hours just chatting and making out in Lucas’ car, in the domaine’s garage, and okay, maybe it wasn’t what he had imagined a first date with Lucas to be, but…

It was good. _So fucking good_.

He kicks a stone in the distance, trying to focus on what’s ahead of him and ignore the heaviness on his chest. It’s dumb. _So dumb_. He needs to shake himself out of it real quick.

He can see the Jeep, parked on the side of the road, and when he rounds it, Lucas is sitting behind the wheel, scrolling through his phone. The first thing he notices is the blue baseball cap he’s wearing, which makes his eyes pop even more than usual — eyes that look up when Eliott opens the passenger’s door and climbs in.

“There he is,” Lucas drawls as he slides into the passenger’s seat, letting his backpack fall down at his feet. “You know we’re not eloping right? You don’t have to get all cold feet on me.”

“I’m sorry I just…” He pauses, twisting his mouth a little. “I got busted.”

Lucas looks at him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He’s not sure but he thinks Lucas tensed at the words. “What do you mean?”

Chewing onto his bottom lip, Eliott slouches against the seat. “My friends. They’re on my case for all the sneaking out.” He looks down, sheepish, and he subconsciously rubs the back of his neck. “They know I’m seeing someone. They just don’t know it’s you.”

Lucas hums, glancing at the wheel in front of him. “Well I don’t know your friends but I don’t think it will take them long to figure out,” he says. The smile has vanished from his face and it’s almost like Eliott forgot how his features look sharp, unforgivingly so, when he’s building all his walls back up.

It makes his heart beat faster. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m really, really sorry, I should have been more careful. I didn’t tell them it was you, right now they think I’m sleeping with your mother, so like-”

Lucas turns to the side. “Eliott, hey, calm down,” he says, and he reaches out across the console to lightly tap his left knee. “It’s okay. Thank you for not telling them, I really appreciate it, and I’m very sorry that you’re getting in trouble because of me.”

He looks sincere as Eliott stares into his deep blue eyes; not quite as open as he usually is with him these days, but at least he doesn’t look mad. “It’s not trouble,” _yet_ he doesn’t add. “It might take a while but… hopefully they’ll back off.”

Usually they know when to cut him some slack. Which makes it even worse because it means Eliott must have been a giant jackass for two weeks straight for them to decide to intervene like they just did. It’s not helping on the self-depreciating front, if he’s being honest. Lucas taps once more onto his knee to get his attention.

“C’mere,” Lucas says. He leans forward above the console and Eliott meets him halfway for a kiss. It’s not quite a peck, because they linger a bit, but it remains chaste.

Lucas’ hand comes to gently brush his cheek and Eliott finds himself leaning into the touch. Another quick peck, then Lucas pulls away to start the car and Eliott snaps out of it long enough to buckle up. He doesn’t even know how far they are from their destination, but as cheesy as it may sound he’d be ready to go literally anywhere with him in that moment.

 _You’re such a fucking walking cliché_.

For a minute or two they don’t talk. Lucas takes them away from the domaine, the stoned walls disappearing in the distance until they can’t be spotted anymore. The road they are on looks vaguely familiar; they must have taken it once or twice to drive to some parcels or something.

“You and my mom,” Lucas says, breaking the silence, and Eliott looks at him in time to see him grimace with a disgusted face. “Yikes.”

“She’s… nice-looking,” Eliott offers. After all he can’t say the contrary. As far as he’s concerned, Lucas has obviously inherited quite a lot of her features, starting with the bone structure, and it looks absolutely dashing on him. Doesn’t mean that he’d ever think about her in any other capacity than _the boss_ and episodically, Lucas’ terrifying mother.

Lucas huffs, shaking his head. “Please don’t.”

Eliott winces, then starts laughing as he makes eye contact with Lucas. He has no idea if it’s because they’ve physically left the domaine, or if it’s because of Lucas’ very presence, but he finds himself relaxing a little. He still feels extra crappy for leaving the boys like that without even a slightly valid explanation, but… But at least he’s with Lucas.

 _Fucking_ _sap_.

Lucas’ eyes travel from him to the road, then back on him. “There’s the smile I like,” he says with a smirk. He turns over the hand that is resting on the gear-shift and Eliott squeezes it briefly, before Lucas has to change gear again as they near a round-about.

**DIMANCHE, 10:12**

The Atlantic seaside is entirely different from the Mediterranean one, as Eliott finds out. He spent a handful of summers in a family house in La Ciutat, where everything is scorching hot, small isolated creeks and sharp cliffs, but here everything looks softer; the late August weather is starting to be gentler and the shore lacks sharp edges.

“I’m sure we can find a cliff or two,” Lucas snorts when Eliott makes the comparison, as they’re walking by the beachfront after grabbing a quick breakfast in a café.

Eliott’s stomach betrayed him just as they were nearing Arcachon, and gentleman as he is, Lucas promised they’d find something for Eliott not to starve to death.

“No, it’s fine,” Eliott says quickly. The last thing he wants is to come across as ungrateful. “I love it here, it’s amazing too.”

It’s a bit early for the boardwalk to be clogged with tourists yet, and since the sun is a bit shy for now, they are just taking a stroll at a casual pace, occasionally stealing a glance at storefronts windows and restaurant terraces. Their arms keep brushing every now and then and it feels like he’s fourteen all over again and dating for the first time, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

He wants to reach out but Lucas has his hands casually shoved in his pockets.

“I’ve never been to La Ciutat,” Lucas says, almost like an afterthought. “I’ve been to Corsica though. In terms of sharp edges, I think we’re good.”

Eliott huffs a laugh. “We usually go over there a week or two in the summer with my parents and we meet with the family.” He pauses, long enough for them to walk past one or two more terraces. “Well, we used to. We haven’t been there for like, two years.”

“Let me guess, this year you were planning your big adventure,” Lucas snickers.

Eliott playfully shoves him away. “This _is_ an adventure for me. The fact that my parents even let me go is 75% of the adventure.”

Lucas hums in response. “Mama’s boy much?” Before Eliott can reply anything, a lady with a stroller forces the way between them, and Lucas turns around on the spot to glare daggers at her. Almost like… Almost like the world interrupting them is giving Lucas murder ideas. It’s such a small thing, but it makes Eliott feel a little weak. Lucas turns back and they start walking again like nothing happened. “I mean technically I’m not even surprised, I knew right off the bat you were a good kid.”

Eliott rolls his eyes. “It’s complicated,” he admits. Lucas glances at him and Eliott finds himself mirroring his position, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I had some problems last year. And like, a bit before that too. Something like a… like an attitude problem, in a way. I was sneaking out a lot. Drinking. Smoking. I would… Like, I would hang out with people I didn’t even know much. Older. Bolder.” _And fun fact that’s how I lost my virginity_ , he almost says, but he manages to hold it back just in time. He can feel his brain-to-mouth filter thinning and it’s clearly not a good thing. _At all_. He takes a small inhale, hands digging deeper. “It didn’t help that I had to repeat my terminal year.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary,” Lucas huffs, cocking an eyebrow. “My friend Baz. He had to retake the exam because he forgot to turn over the exam sheet and complete an English exercise. _That’s_ out of the ordinary. In the dumbass department.”

Eliott snorts. “Yeah. Except that I just… didn’t go.”

Lucas’ pace falters a little. “You ditched the BAC,” he says slowly.

Eliott twists his mouth in discomfort, staring at his feet as he keeps walking. Lucas catches up with him easily. “I ditched the BAC,” he repeats in a mumble. “Summer vacation wasn’t really what my parents had in mind after that.”

He can still hear them yelling everywhere in the apartment. Doors slamming. Unintelligible strings of threats. It was a crappy summer on all accounts. He had no phone, no laptop — in short he was as grounded as anyone could possibly be. To make matters even worse Sofiane was in Morocco for a good part of the summer, Idriss was vacationing with his parents, and Eliott’s mother was refusing to even allow him to go out to buy tobacco, which wasn’t even that much of a problem considering he didn’t leave his bed for days in a row.

“I’m still glad they let you go this year,” Lucas says casually. “Would have been a waste.”

“For real.”

“When I was seventeen, I ditched school and hopped in a train for Paris,” Lucas says. He reaches for his sunglasses, perched on top of his head, and slides them down onto his nose. “I had those plans to enter the conservatory after the BAC, but I wanted to… I don’t know, I knew they might try to get me to change my mind so I wanted it to be a done deal so they’d just have to roll with it. Turns out Charles snitched to my grandfather. I was mad, so I left.”

The conservatory. _Really_. And he says that like… like it’s no big deal. Sure. It’s not a surprise that he’s good with instruments, he watched the few videos on his Instagram enough times to know that, but the conservatory it’s… another level of good. Eliott looks at him curiously. “So where did you go?”

Lucas shrugs a little, looking up, probably to meet his eyes from behind his sunglasses. “I had a childhood friend left. I went to his place.”

Eliott hums in response. “I slept with a runaway,” he says after a moment, and Lucas starts laughing. “That’s kind of hot.”

“If you can call a runaway someone who crashes in a flat on the Grands Boulevards, sure, you did,” he snorts. “Anyway, after the usual threats to cut me off, I caved with the condition that I didn’t want to study in France. I don’t know why I said that. I could have gone back to Paris and all would have been well, but I said that and then I didn’t want to backtrack. So London it was.”

“Does that make me selfish to wish you had said Paris instead?”, Eliott says. He knows he’s being clingy. He also knows that they’ve had this conversation before. But he can’t help it. Time passes, days go by, and everything just happens too fast.

“For what it’s worth you might have been a one-night stand if we had met there.”

Eliott’s face snaps to the side, eyes widening a little as they dart onto Lucas. “I’m sorry _what_?”

Lucas purses his lips. “Okay this came out a bit harsher than I thought,” he admits. Suddenly, Eliott wants him to take off his sunglasses, a lot more than he’d be ready to confess. He hates that he can’t see Lucas’ eyes. “But, like, assuming we had met in Paris, and assuming you had given me all the greenlights, I’d have brought you home that night, probably, and that’d have been it. Call me old school, but I don’t fuck on the first date. That’s how I make a difference between hookups and dating.”

Eliott feels a lump growing in his throat. “What does that make me then?”, he asks. _You called me a summer fling before_ , he nearly says. He thought they were past this, but apparently they aren’t.

He hates the way it makes his skin crawl, more than it should. He’s spent a good portion of last week searching excuses whenever Lucas would blow hot and then cold, and most of them came down to Lucas’ crappy family and the even crappier atmosphere at the farmhouse. It makes sense to be upset when you’re surrounded by that kind of family, it truly does. But then, every time he tries a little harder than Lucas, he can’t help but think that he’s overstepping.

“It makes you whatever you want to be,” Lucas says.

This time Eliott doesn’t bother hiding the way his features tense. Maybe he’s hoping Lucas notices. _Maybe._

“Eliott,” Lucas calls out, but Eliott keeps his eyes on the ground until he reaches out. Lucas’ hand winds up on his arm, pulling him to the side of the boardwalk. The metallic barriers lining up the pedestrian road give him a sense of déjà-vu, but since there’s a limit to the childishness he can pull; he doesn’t fight when Lucas cocks his head to the side to search for his look. “Look, Eliott, I’m not saying that to avoid the topic, I’m just saying that you have the choice. I’m giving you the choice.”

“But I don’t want to choose,” Eliott says, earnest. “I want it to be obvious for both of us. I want it to make sense, I want it to be absolutely logical.” He hates the way he can’t find the right words. “I just don’t think relationships should be a matter of personal opinion.”

Lucas seems about to say something, but he catches himself and stays silent for one more second. “Eliott, we’ve been dating for like five minutes,” he eventually points out. He slides an arm behind Eliott’s back, thumb stroking lightly between his shoulder blades.

Eliott lets out a sigh. “Yeah, but it’s five minutes out of the fifteen we’re given.”

In just a couple of days, he’ll be back in Paris, and then Lucas will go back to London. It’s not like it comes as a shocker, especially not in this moment. He’s been spending far too much time thinking about it last week, to be honest. ~~~~

“Look at me,” Lucas says, and when he takes off his sunglasses and Eliott meets his deep blue eyes, something shifts. It’s not that it makes him feel better, not outright, because it doesn’t change the problem, but it makes things a bit more… real. “You knew this would be like this. And I knew it too. But it doesn’t mean we have to let it get to us. If you keep looking so far ahead you’ll be missing out on all the things we can do together.”

Eliott purses his lips but he nods nonetheless, and when Lucas holds out his hand for him to take, he doesn’t hesitate. Their fingers tangle together, somewhat naturally, and Lucas pulls him one or two steps forward.

**DIMANCHE, 15:17**

****

**DIMANCHE, 22:37**

“If you keep staring at your phone, I’m throwing it in the water.”

Eliott startles a little, eyes snapping up to meet Lucas’ pointedly staring at him, and he feels caught red-handed. In his defense he hasn’t heard Lucas walking out of the water, and it’s now dark enough that he didn’t even _see_ him make his way over here.

“Jealous much?”, he says, trying to go for a smile.

Lucas doesn’t look upset _upset_ , but he doesn’t look very happy either, and guilt washes over Eliott in a blink of an eye. Shit. He got on his nerves. After the day they had, he had to screw this up now. Fucking typical of him. He quickly locks his phone, momentarily blinded by the dim light of the last flashes of purple over the horizon, where the sun has disappeared a good few minutes ago.

The day went by at light’s speed with little regard for Eliott’s personal feelings on the matter, and the shy morning sun had left way to a much brighter, much warmer weather by lunch time. Predictably enough the beach had soon been flooded with tourists enjoying their last taste of summertime, probably before going back home, and if Eliott wasn’t the biggest fan of overcrowded places with screaming kids running around, staring at Lucas’ abs for the better part of the afternoon was entirely worth a bit of discomfort. In the end they spent their time alternating between laying down on the sand and childishly trying to drown each other — and that either, Eliott found he didn’t mind, because every time Lucas playfully shoved him under the surface and that he came back spitting salty water, Lucas would be laughing so loud and bright that it’d just make his heart leap.

Lucas huffs and reaches for his beach towel to wrap himself in it. He’s the only one who had the courage to go back to the water after they grabbed dinner in a nearby restaurant, since Eliott politely declined catching pneumonia for his last few days around. “Only because whenever you look at it you get upset,” he observes. He runs his hand through his wet hair, before dropping himself onto the sand next to him.

Eliott purses his lips sheepishly, staring down at his phone in the dark. “It’s just that I hoped they would be over it by now and it doesn’t seem like it,” he mumbles.

The couple of texts he sent the boys to try and deflect their grumpiness from afar have remained unread — instead he found out through their stories that Idriss and Sofiane went clubbing. It’s not like he doesn’t want them to have a good time just because he isn’t around, no, it’s just that-

Okay fine, sue him. He’s one of those people who hate when other people are mad at them. He just can’t help it. It’s like nothing else matters as long as whoever is mad at him remains upset, and too bad if he’s not the one who’s technically in the wrong.

Lucas hums noncommittally. “Tomorrow’s another day,” he says, and he reaches to squeeze Eliott’s knee. “At the end of the day all you’ve done is sneaking out a bunch of times, they’ll get over it.”

 _Except that it’s not just that_. Well. It is. From Lucas’ point of view, and anyone else’s really, it _is_ only about sneaking out a bunch of times. But for him, for Idriss, for Sofiane, it’s three more weeks of sneaking out he just pulled after he promised that he would stop disappearing inexplicably the way he used to. He heaves a small sigh, mostly to himself, and leans to the side until his head is resting on Lucas’ shoulder. He smells like salty water and sunscreen, and Eliott closes his eyes when Lucas’ temple presses on top of his head. The waves are only a couple meters away from them, but they sound so close that it’s like being in the middle of the sea.

“Hey,” Lucas says after a while, his thumb rubbing the side of Eliott’s knee. “Kiss me.”

Eliott’s eyes flutter open, and he untucks his head from under Lucas’ to grin at him. “Turns out you’re very demanding for someone who plays it so cool.”

“I’m not demanding, I’m high maintenance,” Lucas retorts. It sounds arrogant, unapologetic, and Eliott isn’t even entirely sure he’s joking at this point — but it doesn’t matter. Because it’s old news anyway that Lucas is just _Lucas_ , and even though he’d have never expected himself to fall for that kind of guy, he can’t find a single good reason now not to. Lucas glances at him from the corner of his eye before looking back to the horizon. “But if you won’t do it I guess I can find someone else.”

Eliott lets out a sound of protest, grumpily digging into his hoodie’s pockets. That’s _low_. So what, just because he got _marginally_ snippy at the girl managing the food truck they grabbed lunch at, now he gets to be branded with red iron as the jealous type? Last he checked _Lucas’ abs_ didn’t place the order, there was no need to stare at them while asking them what kind of sauce they would be taking.

“Please, go ahead,” Eliott sneers, gesturing around them and the near deserted beach front. Two can play this game, after all. “I’d pay to watch you make out with a girl and pretend you’re enjoying yourself.”

They’re practically alone but a couple of hundred meters away he can hear a group laughing loudly and few other people scattered around. There’s a twinkle dancing in Lucas’ eyes, as he obviously tries to keep a straight face. “I’m a very good actor,” he says, cocking an eyebrow, and he twists his left arm around to cup Eliott’s face, “do not challenge me.”

Eliott huffs and grins despite himself. “I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

“Well that’s better,” Lucas says, brushing their noses together, his lips hovering faintly above Eliott’s, until Eliott impatiently closes the space between them.

He lets his eyes flutter shut as Lucas takes over, mouths languidly moving together for a blissful moment. A breeze coming from the ocean ruffles Eliott’s hair, brushing across his face, and Lucas breaks apart with a groan. His towel has dropped from around his shoulders and he shuffles to put it back on, crossing his legs to hide as much skin as possible below.

“You should just get dressed back at this point,” Eliott snickers.

Lucas pouts. “It’s late. If I put my clothes back it means it’s time to go home and stuff.”

“Okay but is it worth catching hypothermia?”

“You can’t catch hypothermia, it’s not a disease,” Lucas replies stubbornly.

Eliott shoves him playfully. “Stop playing with words, you know what I mean.”

Lucas looks at him with a wry smile. “I think I have a good margin before reaching that point,” he shrugs. “Besides I sure hope you’d help me regulate my body temperature before we get there.”

Eliott snorts. “Sure. Always dreamed of fucking an ice cube.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “You’re so dramatic,” he sighs, but ultimately he lets his towel drop and pool around him as he stands up on his feet. Eliott doesn’t bother pretending to look somewhere else while he exhumes his clothes from his backpack, then proceeds to pull up his shorts directly onto his swim trunks and to put on a hoodie. “There, no hypothermia,” Lucas says, drawing the hood over his wet hair.

He drops himself back down in the sand, and Eliott can’t help but laugh as Lucas pulls him closer. For a moment they keep staring in silence at waves dying on the shore, the echo faraway groups getting to them every now and then. It’s not that hard to make himself smaller than he is, especially not when it’s in Lucas’ arms; it just happens, and it’s not long before Lucas’ lips find his temple, pressing against his hair without quite kissing.

They’re just there, and Eliott’s heart sings.

“What is it like,” he asks after a while, voice a little rough. “Your life in London.”

Lucas snorts quietly, his hand rubbing gently his shoulder. “Very, very different. More than you can imagine. I play with a band in underground venues and fans line up in the street to see me. I never sleep alone, my bed is never empty, and I’m by far the most famous and adored guy on campus.” He buries his nose in Eliott’s hair for a second, then squeezes him a little bit closer. “What do you think?”

“That’s not answering my question,” Eliott points out, carefully trying not to ask whether or not the ‘never sleeping alone’ truly is a big fat lie.

“Well I do the same stuff you do,” Lucas laughs quietly. “I go on campus. I get on a cramming spree every once in a while. I go out with my friends and every once in a while I ask Marie Jeanne to help me relax.”

Eliott hums, craning his neck up to softly nose along Lucas’ neck. “What are they like, your friends?”

“You’ve got a lot of questions tonight, uh.”

 _I want to know if you’ll miss me_ , he almost says, but he bites hard onto his bottom lip not to say it. Lucas doesn’t seem to pick up on his silence, which is probably for the best. He doesn’t know what he would say otherwise, without killing the mood.

“Well there’s mostly Yann,” Lucas says after a while, adjusting his legs without breaking apart from Eliott. “He moved in London the same year I did and we bonded over that. And since Manon and I shared a couple of courses at uni, she became a part of it.”

 _And then she left._ Lucas doesn’t say it, but the words seem to hang over them anyway. Eliott can’t help but feel sad for him — which he keeps to himself too, because he’s pretty sure Lucas would kick his ass otherwise. Sometimes he gets that feeling that Lucas isn’t as happy as he makes it seem. That he’s lonelier that what he projects to the rest of the world. _You should apologize to Manon_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t dare. It’s not his business. He doesn’t even know what kind of stuff Lucas told her the night he got drunk, and he doesn’t even know _her_.

But still, he knows what it’s like to upset his friends, and be forced to grovel to make things better. And sometimes, yes. Sometimes it’s worth it.

“Would it be okay if I sleep in the cabin tonight?”, he asks after a moment. “I mean, not that I’m dying to but like-”

Lucas pulls away a little, quirking a brow. “Oh, so you’re already sleeping on the couch?”

Eliott stands up straighter and gives him a look until Lucas huffs a laugh. “I just kind of think I should try to get around and talk with the guys. Maybe they’ll be in a better mood after all that dancing and partying.”

Lucas hums. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’ve got you for a few more nights anyway.”

**DIMANCHE, 23:01**

**LUNDI, 09:14**

Nine in the morning.

Fucking _nine_ in the morning. That’s when he hears the familiar sound of the stoney path crunching under two giant dumbasses’ footsteps from inside the cabin. Nearly twelve fucking hours after he asked Lucas if he could pass on an opportunity to sleep with him to have a _talk_ with his fucking _best friends_. Only for them to never fucking _show up_ and never even bothering to reply to his fucking texts — half of them in all caps, because after three he started losing it.

He’s never ignored a text from the boys when it was serious and in all caps.

 _Never_.

And all of that for what? To prove a point? To emphasize the fact that they were mad? Well he got that, really. He had plenty of time to think about it when he got back on the domaine with Lucas. _Just go to bed and leave it at tomorrow,_ he had texted him when Eliott had started complaining. On the moment he hadn’t known how to take it — it felt kind of a ‘shut the fuck up’ type of answer —, and mostly, Lucas hadn’t repeated his offer for him to join his bed at the big house, so Eliott hadn’t dared to even try and crack a joke about it, and so this is how he ended up spending the night completely alone and with entirely too much time to think.

Now he’s sitting on his bed, drilling holes with his eyes in the door long before it even opens for Idriss and Sofiane. The pair doesn’t even have the good taste to look even remotely startled to see him here — which only adds fuel to the fire. Because if really they knew he’d be here, it means they saw his texts piling up and never even bothered to read them.

He’s not just upset, he’s mad.

“Where were you gone?”, he snaps.

Idriss motions towards his bed, zipping his jacket open. “Oh, because we tell each other that sort of things now?”

Eliott glares at him. “Stop being a giant bitch baby!”

“We slept over at Emma’s,” Sofiane says. It sounds less harsh than Idriss but it’s still cold nonetheless. “I hope your day out went well,” he adds, kicking off his shoes before climbing on his bed.

“Extremely well,” Eliott smiles dryly. “Until I came back here to talk with you because I wanted to apologize, and you two never fucking showed up!”

“What do you expect from us?”, Idriss retorts, turning back on the spot and throwing his arms open. “You can’t just disappear when you feel like it, not after last year.”

It feels a lot like his best friend just hit him square in the face. Eliott feels the invisible blow heating up his cheeks, and his gaze slips away. “This has nothing to do with last year.”

Idriss lets out a bitter snort. “Well that’s all I’m hoping for, because you never bothered to tell us shit.” He shakes his head. “I don’t give a shit that you’re screwing someone on the side-”

“Then why are you acting like you do?”, Eliott interrupts, tone rising ever so slightly to cover the sound of Idriss’ voice. _And disproportionally at that_.

“Because we don’t want you to get in trouble,” Idriss practically shouts.

He opens his mouth and closes it. For a moment the cabin goes back to awfully silent, but Eliott’s ears are still ringing. “Look,” he says, tone gone quiet. “I appreciate but that’s… that’s not me who’s risking it all in this. I’m fine. I’m good. I swear.”

“Good. But that’s a bit late, don’t you think?” Eliott’s eyes dart onto Sofiane. “That’s the kind of stuff you should have told us the day you started fucking whoever that is you’re fucking. For fuck’s sake, Eliott, we were this close to calling your parents the other day.”

All the alarms in Eliott’s head go off. “What?” he asks. For a moment he forgets he’s still mad at them; his head snaps from Sofiane to Idriss and then back to Sofiane in record time. “When-”

“The night you vanished from your bed.”

He’s just about to ask which one but then-

Well. He’s spent only one night with Lucas so far. Only one. The rest were just stolen moments when no one was paying attention and it… It kind of hurts, if he has to be honest. It hurts that this is all they have, when all those crushing feelings he has bubbling just below the surface are begging him not to call whatever they have just a summer fling.

He stares down at his hands. “I didn’t know you guys had noticed,” he confesses.

He’s racking his brain, he really is, but he can’t remember if the guys acted weirdly the next day, or if he was just too far lost into his love bubble to notice. He surely isn’t that clueless right? He would have noticed if there had been like… changes and jabs and stuff?

One look at Idriss, at his frumpy face, at the way he doesn’t seem to be ready to drop it just yet, or at Sofiane and his dad-friend-frown… He just knows he’d have noticed if they were pissed. Definitely.

Sofiane heaves a sigh, scratching the back of his head. “Look,” he says, slowly like he’s pondering his words. “Last year, you remember what you asked us?”

“Not to act like anything had changed,” he hears himself reply, pressing his lips tightly together.

“Yeah, exactly,” Idriss says briskly. He motions towards the bathroom door that he pulls open. “So if you don’t want us to second guess everything then you need to start sharing about some stuff.”

When he steps in the small bathroom, door shutting behind himself, Eliott stares back at Sofiane, but his friend pointedly looks somewhere else. 

**LUNDI, 10:07**

**LUNDI, 20:07**

“Lucas?”, he calls out tentatively, pace faltering a bit when he pads through the hall. It might have been the one he ran through the day Manon cut short their little… _session_ in Lucas’ mom’s office, but he’s not sure.

(In his defense he was panicking a bit much to pay attention to his surroundings.)

He frowns slightly, looking up and around him, trying to make sense of where he came from and where he’s headed. Lucas told him to join him in the winery earlier, but he’s not sure what that means. There’s only one way to it, right?

A door opens at the end of the hall, Lucas stepping outside, and Eliott relaxes instantly. He’s wearing dark pants and a dark button down and _fuck_ he looks so hot Eliott forgets his own name for a moment. As he gets closer, he realizes that the light pouring in through the open door has turned his button down from an undetermined dark color to a navy blue that matches his eyes.

“Hey,” Eliott says, hoping he doesn’t sound too breathless already.

“Hi there.” Lucas looks vaguely smug as he waits for him in the doorframe, but his trademark smirk fades out quickly. “You bought me roses,” he says, eyebrows arching up.

Eliott feels himself flinching a little, his grip tightening around the roses until a few thorns threaten to pierce the paper wrap. “Yeah. Is that weird?”, he asks sheepishly, nervously stopping in front of Lucas. “I’m sorry, it is weird.”

He knew he shouldn’t have. He fucking _knew_ _it_. But he wanted to do something nice, and for the past two days it has felt like Lucas was ready for all of that — so when he said that they’d be alone tonight, he thought ‘let’s go for it’. And now? Now he feels utterly stupid. He’s all but ready to throw them to the ground and step on it when Lucas slowly reaches for them with a scoff.

“What are you talking about? They’re amazing.”

Eliott blinks in surprise as Lucas takes a closer look at the flowers. “Really?”

He looks up again, huffing a laugh. “Well yeah,” he says, and it sounds earnest enough to make Eliott’s heart flutter, and a dumb smile show up on his face.

He grins softly, and his hand reaches for Eliott’s shoulder, sliding behind his neck to pull him in. It feels so natural when their lips meet, the way their faces angle, the way their mouths fit together — so natural that it feels like forever since they first did all of that. Lucas pulls away, although not before he’s let his thumb brush across Eliott’s cheek, and Eliott finds himself staring into his deep blue eyes with the sheer will to drown.

“I’ve got something for you too,” Lucas says. “I mean, for us, mostly. C’mon.”

His hand trails down to catch one of Eliott’s, and he pulls him in through the door. The room is another converted cellar, although it’s pretty apparent from the beginning that the rustic touch was very much intended. It looks sophisticated, not to say plain expensive; the brick floor is covered with a thick rug, the low ceiling with wood plank, and the stone walls with arched racks filled with bottles of wine, floor to ceiling tall. It’s the kind of room that instantly prompts whispered conversations and revered discussions — but what catches Eliott’s attention is a more secluded area, set apart from the rest of the vast room by a massive brick arch. It looks a lot cozier, with two couches furnishing the corner and a high table with bistro-like bar stools.

Lucas’ hand slips off from his own as he waltzes in the second room like he owns the place (which, in a way, he does, now that he thinks about it), and Eliott follows behind. There’s a bar and what looks vaguely like a few basic elements from a kitchen to complete the picture. It all feels so alien that for a minute Eliott forgets they’re on the domaine. It’s like a whole different world in here, one he clearly wasn’t expecting just a minute ago.

“This is…” Eliott’s voice trails off, and he finds himself unable to find the right words. The high table is set for two, and the dimly lit area is basking in the glow of candles shimmering softly when Lucas walks close by. “Wow.”

Lucas turns back, looking very smug. “Did I manage to make you speechless?”

 _Anything makes me speechless with you_ , he almost says. His heart is beating so fast in his chest it feels like it’s about to open it up to break free. “Yes,” he admits. His hand absently rests on one of the bar stools. “Were you trying?”

“Maybe.” Lucas slides behind the bar, placing the bouquet of roses on the hardwood surface, before disappearing from Eliott’s sight as he crouches down. “I told you I’d make it worth it.” Eliott hears him rummage a little, then he stands back up with an ice bucket. “We don’t really have flower vases in here, that will have to do for now.”

Eliott huffs a soft chuckle, and gives the room one more stunned look while Lucas pours water from an invisible tap in the bucket. “So that’s, like, for wine testing?”

“Yup. But the wine testing won’t pick up until mid-September, so in the meantime, I’m blowing your mind with it,” Lucas says casually.

Eliott snorts, focusing back on him. He leaves the high table to get closer, trying not to look too fidgety. Lucas doesn’t seem to notice; he sets two bottles of wine on the bar with a grin. “Tada-a.”

Just by the look on Lucas’ face and the quickest glance at the label, Eliott knows what’s the deal. It looks expensive, and his mouth opens stupidly. “Oh, wow,” he can only sputters. _Château Lafite Rothschild 2001_. He’s sure he’s already heard that name once and it wasn’t to say that the wine was lame, he’s pretty positive about it. “That’s my birth year,” he dumbly comments.

He wants to smack himself. Truly an impressive way to make conversation.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I picked it,” Lucas smirks. He picks up the second bottle to wipe something off before Eliott can really see the brand, but he thinks it’s white wine — it’s hard to tell with the lights. “It’s a good vintage, but I’ve known that for a few days now.”

“Oh god, stop being cheesy,” he huffs, and Lucas starts laughing.

“Nope. Not happening.” He hands Eliott the bottles, and motions behind the bar to retrieve impressively tall glasses of wine from a cupboard. “The other day you said that I killed romantism and I’m very set on changing your mind.”

He rounds the bar and Eliott follows him to the couches. As soon as his eyes fall back onto the candles and the empty plates, as they pass by the table, it’s like his brain turns to mush and his knees go weak. He can’t _believe_ Lucas went literally so far out of his way to plan this — it just doesn’t sink in. Even if the plates remain empty for the whole night he won’t be mad; just the thought of it all is enough to feed his romantic brain for… a long time.

A very, very long time.

They sit down on the leather couch, while Lucas pours some red into a glass before handing it to him. And it’s dumb really. It’s really, _really_ dumb. Because for one minute he was too caught up in the romance of it all, swept off his feet, to realize that Lucas very much intended for him to drink too.

 _Oh shit_.

He realizes he’s staring when Lucas starts frowning. “You don’t like wine?”, he enquires, then before Eliott can answer he curses to himself. “I know I should have asked.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Wine is fine,” he says hurriedly, carefully picking the ridiculously tall glass from Lucas’ hands. It looks so fragile, he has to make an effort not to grip the neck too tightly. His voice sounds very quiet when he forces himself to add: “I might just stick to one glass though, if that’s okay. It’s not mixing well with my meds.” He can’t help the way his mouth twists uncomfortably, and his gaze drops onto the dark red surface. “You… You remember when I told you that I had some stuff going on not long ago? It’s more complicated than that.”

A second passes, then another one.

“If you are a recovering alcoholic, I’m snatching that drink off your hand,” Lucas says, slowly, but when Eliott looks up he finds him very serious.

“No,” he shakes his head, and the wine sways a little in his glass. “I’m… I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. About a year ago. It was a bit of a mess back then and I’m still trying to figure out some stuff and my new limits so sometimes it gets tricky because-”

“Hey. It’s fine,” Lucas says, interrupting him. But truth is, it doesn’t sound rude. It doesn’t sound rude or brutal, because his voice is calm enough to make Eliott’s brain falter in its race for self-justification. Lucas stretches forward to put the bottle on a small table, then reaches for Eliott’s thigh, squeezing it lightly. Eliott shares a look with him, his throat constricting a little at the sight of Lucas’ candle-lit features. “It’s cool. You don’t even have to drink at all.”

Eliott’s not sure but he thinks his eyes are prickling. Not a lot. Just a little bit. He can feel a small tingle, and he blinks a couple of times to avoid any dramatic response. Lucas is still staring expectantly at him, and he nods briefly with a faint smile. “One glass is okay,” he says. “I mean it.”

“Alright.”

 _Alright_. Eliott stares at him, maybe in bewilderment if he’s being honest. His eyes trail up and down, taking in Lucas’ sharp jawline, his hair tousled just the right amount, his button-down just the right size to embrace his shoulders, and the dark pants that fit him in all the right places — but he also sees everything else. He sees the way Lucas promised to make it up to him, he sees the way Lucas cares about his plans and projects, the way he comforted him after the boys cornered him. He sees the way Lucas always seems to be giving him the choice, and the way he never seems to question his answer.

He sees the way Lucas doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that _he can be trouble too_.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say. So much it physically hurts in his chest. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Ever since the diagnosis it’s been a nagging fear of his, at the back of his head. The fear that no one will ever want to put up with him, because there’s something _wrong_ with him. The fear that people consider being with him a challenge, a problem, something stressful and clearly not rewarding enough. The fact people might think he’s damaged goods.

 _Alright_.

It’s just a word. And still Eliott’s heart leaps. Because he knows — he wants to believe — that he means it. He did say it, right? _It’s fine, it’s okay. It’s cool._ Perhaps it was about the wine, and the wine only. But he wants to believe that the rest is fine too.

Lucas doesn’t seem to debate internally the way he’s doing right now. He raises his own glass, then looks Eliott in the eye, and he’s trying to find something, searching those deep blue pool for any sign that something has changed — the twinkle of discomfort, the invisible shift in attitude — but there’s nothing more than a minute ago.

“Cheers,” Lucas says.

Eliott’s mouth stretches into a smile. “Cheers.”

His heart is still beating loud in his chest as the glasses clink together, and still beating loud when Eliott peers above the rim when Lucas brings his wine to his lips. _Thump, thump, thump._ He’s so fucking dumb. He wants to stop thinking so much. He looks away, carefully taking a first sip. Not because of the meds, just because he knows nothing about wine. His personal consumption begins and ends with a glass of red and a glass of white at Christmas.

He lets the acid taste roll on his tongue, trying to keep his expression neutral through the _shit it’s expensive, shit it’s expensive, shit it’s expensive_ aftertaste. He doesn’t want to think about the hypothetical cost of that bottle. Nope.

Lucas stares at his glass with an appreciative look on his face. “Hmm. Okay, yeah I see what this is about. Fruity. Bright. Kind of robust, maybe a bit gritty, but in a good way. Did you notice the herbaceous aftertaste?”

He has the audacity to stare at him dead in the eye, cocking an eyebrow. 

Eliott squints a little, nose in his drink. “You’re making this up.”

He’s heard wine geeks talk before, mostly in movies or documentaries, but he’s pretty sure he’s messing with him. 85% positive. Maybe 75. A solid 60 at least.

Something twinkles in Lucas’ eyes and his face breaks into a grin. “You can’t be mad at me for trying to impress you with my non-existent oenologist skills,” he says, barking a laugh, and Eliott huffs in mock annoyance.

He shakes his head, taking a small sip of his drink. He’ll have to trust that it’s a good wine, because he doesn’t really notice anything in particular. Least of all herbs or whatnots. Lucas’ laughter makes the content of his glass sway a little, and he adjusts himself on the couch, sitting on one folded leg as he turns to face Eliott.

“Counterproposal,” Eliott says slowly, resting one elbow on the cushion. “Maybe you don’t have to impress me at all.” Okay, to be fair, _he is impressed_. Ever since he got here, ever since he set a foot on this domaine, hell ever since they made eye contact in that club, he’s been impressed. Everything about Lucas amazes him and he can’t possibly think for a second that, even if they were given all the minutes in the world, he’d tire of it.

But still. In that moment, he thinks, it’s okay if Lucas isn’t trying too hard. Mostly because he’s sitting in a winery, with expensive wine in his glass, and a candle-lit dinner waiting for him — he really, really can’t be bothered to care about Lucas’ non-existent skills.

Lucas hums in response, pursing his lips, and Eliott’s hand absently reaches into Lucas’ lap to entwine their fingers. “Isn’t that boring?”

Lucas’ thumb strokes lightly the palm of Eliott’s hand, and it’s enough to make goosebumps rise across his skin — he hopes Lucas doesn’t notice. He shrugs in response, hoping to sound casual. “Then we can make it the opposite of boring.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucas asks with a smirk. “And what’s the word for that?”

Eliott glances at his wine, then back at Lucas. “Kiss me,” he says, feeling bold, and he pointedly cocks an eyebrow.

The smirk on Lucas’ face stretches into a grin, broad and bright, and he leans forward. Their hands break apart as Lucas’ cups his face to kiss him, deep and soft at the same time, his lips tasting like expensive wine — he kisses Eliott like he’s not here to play, and Eliott, well, Eliott kisses him like he never wants that moment to end.

**LUNDI, 23:29**

Sneaking around has its charm, Eliott guesses, but only for a time. In a span of two weeks only, he feels like he’s seen the most there was to see in terms of upsides, and there’s truly nothing like making out with your boyfriend against every possible flat surface. So, naturally, when after dinner (some pasta mixed with a ridiculously long, ridiculously expensive list of ingredients Eliott can’t remember for the life of him), Lucas suggests they move to the farmhouse, he eagerly obliges — only for Lucas to pull him to a stop before they emerge from the winery.

“Wait a sec,” he says, just before sauntering his way back inside, and all Eliott is left to think, it’s that tipsy shouldn’t look so good on him.

Well, to be fair, everything looks good on him. That button-down? It’s been killing Eliott throughout the entire evening. Half of him wants to rip it off him to touch the skin underneath, but the other half wants him to never take it off — maybe he can work out some kind of a deal with Lucas, where he wears it hanging open?

Point is, tipsy Lucas is a delight, something he wouldn’t have quite expected after hearing about the last of Lucas’ drunken prowess the week before. His laugh gets a little bit louder, not in an off-key manner, rather more honest; his smiles are broader and brighter, and he looks more relaxed on all accounts. It reminds Eliott of the first night they met. Where Lucas was just Lucas, and that there wasn’t anything complicated in the world other than his lighter being stubborn.

With a cheeky eyebrow raise, Lucas makes his way back to the front of the winery, tucking a red rose he picked from the bouquet between his teeth, and although Eliott’s initial response is a huff, the one that comes right after is an invisible punch to the gut.

Oh god. _Oh god_.

How is he like _this_? How can he just do something like _this_ and instantly drive Eliott up the wall? It’s insane. So fucking _insane_. Lucas seems very happy with his little effect; he even has the audacity to wink on his way out, just as he walks past Eliott. As if he even _needs_ that to want to shove him against the nearest wall.

They stumble inside the house, from one room to the next, pushing and pulling, lips breaking apart only for a shaky laugh or a breathy curse half-muttered into the other’s mouth. It’s messy, it’s loud, it’s so different from the first time Lucas walked him through the house at night, smuggling him in secret, yet Eliott still feels like his heart is about to explode just the same, if not more.

It’s like getting a taste of being open. Of being out with Lucas. Of being free.

Lucas lets out a _humph_ as Eliott pushes him against the wall, halfway through the staircase, making the framed pictures lined up tremble. Eliott whispers an apology into his mouth, his hand coming up to cup his face, but he’s not sure Lucas hears it because he immediately pulls him into another kiss. Eliott’s eyes shut themselves instantly, his body motioning closer until it’s pressed almost entirely against Lucas’, and it takes his foot nearly slipping off the edge of the step they are on to remember they’re in the middle of a goddamn staircase.

Eliott’s fingers fumble a little with the buttons of Lucas’ shirt, struggling to open them as his hands seem to shake in anticipation. The fabric is so fucking smooth it never stops slipping — which is too fucking bad, because at the moment, Lucas is busy kissing his neck and he’d very, very much like to be able to concentrate on that. After a few more seconds of struggle, he gets rid of the last button, and his hands hungrily slide along Lucas’ flanks, a relieved sigh escaping Eliott’s lips before he can even try and hold it back.

He doesn’t know exactly what has him sighing anyway. Is this because Lucas’ lips are methodically seeking his pulse point? Is this the contact of his fingertips on the warm, sun-kissed skin? No idea. It doesn’t stop him from running his hands on the new expanse of skin, sliding the shirt off one of Lucas’ shoulders and pressing his lips there. Lucas leaves his neck, throwing his head back slowly, and he lets out a quiet, satisfied hum as Eliott trails kisses up his shoulder. Lucas’ hand comes behind Eliott’s head, urging him ever so slightly, chasing his lips until their mouths meet again.

“You know, if you want me to keep it on you can just ask,” Lucas grins against his lips, always so smug.

He should probably be embarrassed with himself by the fact that he’s apparently so painfully transparent that Lucas can literally read him like an open book, but at the moment he’s too busy trying to picture what it would actually look like to deal with that kind of feeling. A flash of golden skin spread out on the bed and deep blue shirt hanging wide open on the pale comforter crosses his mind, and for a second, just one, he loses track of the world turning.

“Okay how about this,” he says, tugging at the fabric of Lucas’ shirt, “you take it off now, but you wear it every single day starting from tomorrow.”

Lucas laughs, his hand traveling down his back until he can squeeze Eliott’s ass. “Only if you wear those pants for the rest of your life.”

Eliott would like to say he has a better control over himself than that, but he ends up letting out a breathy sound, a shiver running through his body. “If you want me to keep them on, you can just ask,” he says, trying to sound cheekier than he feels.

Lucas grins. “Smartass.”

His hands leave his ass to follow the waistband of his dark jeans. Eliott’s heartbeat starts racing in anticipation when he pops open the button, then slides down the zipper, and it’s like he can never get over it. It’s like every time with Lucas is a first time, it’s like he always forgets what it feels like to have Lucas’ hands over his body — it’s like he always forgets what it feels like to lose his mind between Lucas’ arms for a few blissful moments.

 _I love you_.

It’s just on the tip of his tongue when they help each other out of their clothes, each item falling into a messy pile they leave in their wake, as they pull one another towards Lucas’ bed. Lucas’ eyes are dark and bright at the same time, cheeky smiles stretching lazily across his face as they tumble on the mattress together, and it’s there too, right on Eliott’s lips, when Lucas flips them over and tangles their hands together. His back arches up to meet Lucas’ body, quiet gasps swallowed by Lucas’ lips as he trembles and writhes against him. He’s so painfully hard he thinks he might cry if he doesn’t get some kind of release really soon, and he’s not sure, but it seems very much like Lucas does that on purpose — just enough to drive him insane, slow motions of his lower body rubbing unmistakably against Eliott until he can’t take it anymore.

Eliott’s hand slips out, breaking free from Lucas’ grip and winding up his shoulder; his lips trail away from Lucas’ mouth into his neck, and the moment he starts mouthing at the skin, there’s an expected, full-body sigh that escapes Lucas’ mouth, and his body trembles. Eliott has kissed him there before, but it’s the first time Lucas reacts this way — and yes, it turns him on. A good fucking deal, to be honest. Not just the blissed-out sigh, but also the fact that, maybe, just maybe, it goes hand in hand with tipsy Lucas — who, as opposed to sober Lucas, has nothing to prove.

And truth is, Eliott wants to embrace that part of him.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t dare. Because it’s not the moment, because it’s not the right time, because it’s a conversation for another day — assuming that day ever comes. Because if he’s gathered anything from Lucas’ stubborn, eager, nearly bruising making out, talking isn’t on the shortlist of things he wants to be doing right now, not when they have the house to themselves for the first time.

And, frankly, it’s perfectly fine. It’s okay, he gets it, he wants it.

It’s not long before Lucas’ bedroom echoes with his strung out moans. Loud breathes and sharp inhales fill the silence in-between, but still, Eliott feels struck, viscerally so, by the way Lucas’ skin feels like under his fingertips, by the sounds he makes, by the lazy grin on Lucas’ lips every time he utters a quiet praise that makes Eliott preen and double his efforts.

He never wants this moment to stop.

In this moment Paris seems so far away it might as well have been on a different planet, a different universe.

In this moment it’s just Lucas and him and that big house, and there’s this part of him that is hoping that maybe, just maybe, they never have to go back to something else that isn’t simply _that_.

**MARDI, 01:41**

**MARDI, 06:24**

“Hey, Lucas,” he whispers, and he waits expectantly for a few seconds before he reaches to tentatively prod his arm. “Lucas, wake up.”

Lucas stirs with a quiet groan, face crumpling into a frown as he slowly blinks awake. His eyes are droopy and Eliott can guess his eyelids are particularly heavy because Lucas’ first instinct is to stubbornly burrow his face deeper into his pillow.

“Why are you already all dressed up,” he grumbles, voice muffled by the pillowcase.

Eliott snorts. “Because I have to go working.”

Lucas doesn’t look any happier as he sighs and rolls onto his back. Sprawled like this, sleep-warm skin emerging from the dark sheets, it takes all of Eliott’s willpower not to roll back in bed with him for a couple more blissful hours. Literally _all_ his willpower. He finds himself dreaming awake of a universe where he gets to have all the time in the world with him, where they can just be lazy in bed and where they don’t have anywhere else to be.

Eventually Lucas sits up, brushing his hair back, and Eliott comes back to reality.

“Why did you have to be in the morning team?”, he asks, but it sounds rhetorical enough for Eliott to simply shrug.

He heaves a deep sigh and makes a move with his hands for him to come closer — not far from grabby hands, Eliott notices. When he leans in, Lucas pulls him into a kiss, a quick series of peck that still makes Eliott’s heart flutter.

“Do you want to hang out after my shift’s over?”, he asks. He secretly hopes it sounds casual and not plain desperate.

Lucas twists his mouth a little, and Eliott knows right away it’s not a good sign. “I can't, sorry. I have to go clean the winery and then promised my dad I’d spend the day with him. He’s put together a whole one-day road trip that he wants us to try.” He runs his hand across his face and into his hair with a humph. “And now I realize it might not have been very wise of me to drink last night since I’m supposed to taste wine today.”

Eliott chuckles quietly, pulling back to grab his shoes and start putting them on. “Maybe don’t tell them you drank a whole bottle of a 2001 vintage by yourself.”

Lucas snorts. “Look, my dad loves me a lot but I don’t think he’d forgive me.”

He pushes the covers back and retrieves his discarded boxers on the floor to slide them on; they move around in comfortable silence as Eliott makes sure he hasn’t forgotten his phone behind, and Lucas fishes a tee-shirt in a drawer to put it on, before he motions towards the bedroom door. It’s become some kind of a ritual now, he feels like, Lucas walking him downstairs, so much it’s almost like he’s been here for months instead of just barely over two weeks.

Lucas lets go of him through the front door with a shoulder squeeze and a peck on the lips. Outside the sun hasn’t yet begun to rise, and the air feels freezing cold on his bare arms as Eliott pads his way down the dirt trail, flashlight lighting up the way. It’s in moments like these that he realizes time is flying by. When they got here, the sun was already well on its way up whenever they’d wake up.

It’s a little before 6h30 when he makes it to the cabin, emerging from the shadows to pull open the door.

He’s not surprised to find the boys already busying themselves getting ready. Idriss is putting on the beaten-up sneakers he wears in the vines, and Sofiane is stepping out of the bathroom with a grey hoodie in his hands.

“Morning,” he says shyly, closing the door behind himself.

Sofiane and Idriss exchange a quick look. “Morning,” they reply in unison, not quite looking him in the eye before they completely glance somewhere else.

It feels awkward, and the worst part is, it’s entirely his fault. He’s tempted to crawl into a hole and die in there, as he sheepishly makes his way to his bed. He rummages through his stuff to pick up something to wear in the vines, silence stretching out embarrassingly long between the three of them.

Are they even going to talk to him again?

He’s torn between thinking they’re pushing, that they’re being unreasonably bitter and that he shouldn’t be forced to grovel so much, but then there’s the other one — the part of him that thinks they’re right and that he’s wrong. He makes his way to the bathroom to grab a quick shower before breakfast, and strips down before stepping under the showerhead. Nudging the shower tap open, he lets the water stream over him, letting it wash away the last traces of Lucas on his skin.

The one thing this summer has taught him is that he’d never be able to keep a secret life, he thinks dryly to himself. The simple fact that he can’t share how happy his relationship with Lucas makes him with the boys is taking a toll on his sanity. It’s just… It’s frustrating. Not just because he can’t brag and flaunt his hot boyfriend, but because sometimes, it’s just… eating him alive.

It’s too much and he feels like he’s about to implode.

_My boyfriend set up the most romantic date for me last night, you wouldn’t believe it._

_Also, I think I’m in love_.

Because that too, he’d like to talk about it. It’s never happened to him before. He’s been into some people before, but it was never like _that_. It never made his world shake, it never drove him wild with want and need, it never made him feel like the entire universe revolves around two fucking beautiful eyes and the cheekiest smile.

He finishes his shower with the feeling of having already been through an entire work day when, in fact, he’s been awake for less than an hour. Lucas’ arms feel extraordinarily far away now. He exits the bathroom as Idriss is busy scrolling down his phone and Sofiane contemplating the weather through the door cracked open.

“You guys ready?”, he asks.

Idriss stands up from his bed. “Yup.”

“I’m just grabbing my shoes and I’m good to go,” Eliott says.

Idriss throws a casual glance to the side. “Don’t forget to grab a hoodie or something, it’s fucking cold.”

Eliott is tempted to tell him that he knows, because he’s been outside earlier in nothing but a shirt, but he’s not sure it’s going to help his case. He chooses to focus on that his best friend has given him two full sentences instead.

“Thanks,” he nods, just before the boys step outside in the chilly morning air.

**MARDI, 11:37**

**MARDI, 13:41**

He drops himself into the backseat of Emma’s car, slouching into the seat as he unlocks his phone and checks his conversation with Lucas. He hates how that makes him feel dependent, but he can’t help himself; all he’s left to do is scowl at the unsent texts, all the while trying to shake himself out of it.

To no fucking avail.

It’s not often that Lucas is completely out of reach and it makes him feel extra lonely after the amount of time they’ve spent together in the past three days. Does it have to be entirely _his fault_ if suddenly it felt like having a boyfriend? He’s never had one before, the world should cut him some slack, he decides, locking his phone again — he’s very much aware that the ‘world’ is literally him and his conscience debating that world-class problem of his, but it still feels like a lot of people and not nearly enough room in his brain.

He drops his phone into his lap and tries to pay attention to the conversation — it’s mostly Emma and Idriss. They chat animatedly about something they’ve seen, or someone they’ve met, he doesn’t really know; his brain can’t quite get into it and he’s left listening absently to a banter he can’t really process. His glance drifts to the side, only to meet Sofiane’s eyes.

He cocks an eyebrow, before casually looking somewhere else. “Trouble in paradise?”

“What makes you think that,” Eliott asks carefully, but even to himself it doesn’t sound quite like a question.

Sofiane shrugs, looking obstinately through the window as the car eats kilometers of green lands after kilometers of green lands. Eliott knows that attitude. It’s the ‘I’m not going to make another move, deal with it’. He fiddles with a thread of his beaten-up jeans, where it’s ripped open at the knee, twisting his mouth sheepishly. “I just kind of miss this weekend, is all.”

Sofiane hums, still not looking back.

Well, if he wants to pout, he can be stubborn too. Gone are the guilty thoughts, this is too fucking stupid to even bother trying to feel bad about it, he decides as he resolutely turns the other way. He’s always picked Sofiane as the most mature of the three but apparently, he’s never been on the receiving end of his stubbornness.

“Idriss made out with Emma when we were at the club,” Sofiane says, quiet enough for only Eliott to hear.

He can’t help the way his head snaps to the side and his eyes narrow. “No fucking way.”

Sofiane nods, then eventually looks back at him. “We went there with her and one or two of her friends, because there’s like, someone she knows who’s working at the bar.”

Eliott frowns, glancing at the front seats then back to Sofiane. “So they’re like… a thing now?”

Sofiane gives a shrug. “I don’t think so.” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “Anyway, the night wasn’t nearly as fun after that. Every time I heard a noise back at Emma’s flat I thought Idriss had gone into her bedroom.”

He scrunches up his nose in disgust and Eliott can’t help but laugh. Idriss throws a look behind his shoulder and Eliott waves, trying to hide his laughter behind a coughing fit until his friend goes back to stare in front of him.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Sofiane in the elbow once he’s done laughing. “Maybe we could… I don’t know, maybe we could go to that freaky place you guys went to last time.”

Sofiane looks him dead in the eye. “The time you tried to take a master class in bullshitting?” Eliott gives him a look, and eventually Sofiane snorts. “Fine. Yes. We can do that. Idriss, you in?”

“For what?” Idriss asks, scooting around on his seat, just as they’re nearing the now familiar stone walls of the domaine.

“The abandoned church you ended up liking.”

“I didn’t like it,” Idriss retorts stubbornly. “It was okay.”

“Are you for real,” Emma scoffs. “You were the first one to jump around, begging Sof to take pictures and shit.”

“I have all the receipts,” Sofiane adds unhelpfully, leaning forward into his seat as much as his seatbelt allows him.

The three of them start arguing over ‘what really went down that night’ and Eliott tries his best not to feel too left out — which is ironic, really, because that’s the bed he made for himself. Emma parks the car on the improvised parking lot the workers use at the back of the property and they make their way not far behind the rest of the morning team.

Mr. Savary is talking with another worker when they near the outbuilding where they take their meals, but it doesn’t stop him from making a sign to Eliott when he inadvertently makes eye contact with him. “The boss would like to talk to you.”

Eliott blinks a couple of times, pace faltering as he frowns. “Me? Why?”

“Maybe just some paperwork stuff.” Mr. Savary gives a shrug, and although Eliott’s really tempted to stay here and ask a bunch of questions that randomly pop up in his mind, he gives a polite nod as a thank you for the heads up.

“You want us to wait?” Emma offers.

It feels a lot like being brought back to high school and he’s not a fan. “Nah that’s fine, I’ll join you in a couple of minutes,” he waves as he backtracks to head over the building housing the winery and Lucas’ mom’s office.

The sun has been shy for the better part of the morning, temperatures not quite rising, and although he’s seen that exact place at night, it still feels weirdly dark when he pads down the hall, hands instantly digging into his pockets. The door to Isabelle Lallemant’s office is hanging wide open, and she looks busy with some kind of paper folder when he gives a tentative knock on the panel. Maybe Mr. Savary was right.

Maybe it’s just paperwork.

He relaxes a little as she looks up, but only for a second. She doesn’t seem very happy to see him, to say the least.

“Hi,” he says, “you uh… you wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” she replies briskly, shutting the folder close. “Please, close the door.”

Eliott nods and nervously does as he’s told, and it’s funny, really, because he’s never really pegged himself as claustrophobic, but at the moment he feels kind of trapped. Maybe if she didn’t look the way she does, he would be more compelled to ask politely if he can keep the door open, but there’s something that tells him she’s just not someone who gives a fuck how people are feeling.

She drops the folder to the side of the table and Eliott tries really hard not to think about what he did in that place just the week before. This is it. This is karma.

“I'm not going to sugar coat it because I don't have that kind of time nor that kind of patience,” she says, just after he sat down. _Oh no this is bad_ , Eliott thinks. The hair on his arm start rising, even before she presses on: “Two very, very expensive bottles have disappeared from the winery. The cost of your salary wouldn't even begin to cover half of their price, so you can bet that this is not something I want to sit around and joke about.”

Eliott felt his stomach dropping the moment she uttered the word ‘bottles’.

“W-what does that have to do with me?”, he asks, feeling his chest constrict as he struggles to breathe.

This doesn’t mean anything. She might just be fucking around trying to prod left and right. It doesn’t have to mean what he thinks it means, right? He just needs to stay calm. _Stay fucking calm_. He tries to look Mrs. Lallemant in the eye, but she’s one of those people who are particularly tough to maintain eye contact with.

She shifts behind the desk, resting her forearms onto the edge of the table. “I’m going to put it simply, you were seen around,” she says. “Pretty often in fact. I've got several people who told me they saw you in different parts of the domaine at odd hours. I also know you've had access to the Chef de Culture's keys in the past and now the key of the winery is missing, so I’d say it’s a lot for one person, am I wrong?”

Eliott fights himself to be able to swallow down, but there’s a sour taste on his tongue no matter what he does. “It's not what you think”, he says, voice coming out weak and somewhat strained.

Oh God this _is_ happening. He’s going to be sick.

“I don't care,” she retorts, and if Eliott’s brain wasn’t already busy short-circuiting he’d be tempted to snort, because _of fucking course s_ he doesn’t, it’s literally written everywhere across her face. “I’m trying to handle that on the domaine between us. So I give you a chance to give back the bottles and the key to the winery before you leave, otherwise I’m taking this to the police.”

 _Police_. The word rings to Eliott’s ears, and he could swear someone just poured a bathtub worth of ice cubes over his head. Oh God. No, no, _no_. That’s not how the day was supposed to go, it _wasn’t_. “I can't give back the bottles, I don't have them,” he protests, voice rising a little in panic.

Mrs. Lallemant reclines into her seat. “Do you really want me to press charges?”

“No!” This isn’t working. She’s not buying it. He’s fucked, so very, very fucked. “I just... I just can’t give them back because they’ve been opened.”

That’s it. He’s screwed. He just confessed. No turning back. There’s a one-second silence, and he knows, he just _knows_ this isn’t going to end like that, but it doesn’t stop him from jumping on the spot when she heaves a sigh and leans forward to grab the phone on the desk. “I didn’t want to do this but-”

“Please! I’m serious!” he says hurriedly, stomach falling even farther as he throws his hands forward. She pauses and he feels frozen in motion, hands trembling ever so slightly. “If I had them I’d give them back, I _swear_ , but I don’t, and now they’ve probably been thrown somewhere, I don’t know where, but you have to trust me. _Please_ , don’t call the cops.”

He can’t end up with a record. He _can’t_. He barely escaped it last time, and only because his former school agreed to drop the charges, this time no one is going to bother being accommodating and he just _knows_ she won’t drop it.

He wants to throw up.

“Fine.” She slowly puts the phone down, but it’s not nearly enough for Eliott’s heartbeat to go back to normal. He still feels like he’s about to pass out, chest heaving hard. “But I want you to return the key to the winery. This is your last chance, otherwise this is happening.”

“Yes, okay,” he says hurriedly. He doesn’t even take a second to think it through. He doesn’t even pay attention to the nagging voice at the back of his head pointing out all the problems with this particular deal. He doesn’t stop to think about the fact he doesn’t _have_ the key, he just needs to get the fuck out of here at the moment to try and collect himself.

His hand is shaking, itching to reach for his phone.

 _Lucas, Lucas, Lucas_.

Where the fuck is he? Why does it have to happen today of all days?

“Can I… Can I try to look for it now?”, he presses on, mouth full of gravel.

She cocks an eyebrow, looking supremely unimpressed. “It’s in your interest to,” she says dryly. “Since you’re being housed on site, you have till the end of the day to pack and leave.”

He swallows down, and he tries his best to ignore the lump in his throat making it particularly difficult. It’s happening. He’s fired. _Oh God_. He needs to get out. With trembling limbs he pulls himself up onto his feet and motions to the door, shutting it quietly behind himself. The world feels weird as he makes his way outside, like he’s just walking in a house made of cotton and the walls are spinning just a little.

“Eliott?”, Sofiane’s familiar voice calls out when he steps out of the building. “Bro, what’s going on?”

Idriss, Emma and Sofiane are sitting at the foot of a nearby tree, and they stand up when he walks over to them on wobbly legs.

“She fired me,” he says weakly.

A concert of gasps welcomes the new information, immediately followed by a string of “What? _Why_?” and “What the fuck?” He reaches to rub his forehead, an invisible dagger starting to stab him in the frontal lobe. “I can’t talk right now,” he says, heart still beating wildly in his chest as he takes a few steps backwards and grabs his phone from his back pocket. “I need- I need to call someone.”

He doesn’t wait to be any farther than that to dial Lucas’ number with trembling hands and press the phone to his ear. _Pick up, please, pick up_.

Voice mail.

**MARDI, 14:32**

“I can’t believe you’re taking the blame,” Idriss says from his spot on Sofiane’s bed.

Eliott shoves another pair of shorts in his travel bag, glaring holes into the material. “I’m not taking the blame, I’m just trying to deal with this shit situation.”

“By acting like you did something wrong,” Idriss insists, and in any other situation, maybe, just _maybe_ Eliott would have been happy that his friends aren’t immediately doubting him, maybe he’d be happy that they’re trying to help and trying to have his back, but right now this is _not_ helping.

It’s been barely an hour since he got fired and he still hasn’t managed to get in touch with Lucas. Every time he dials his contact number he just ends up straight on voicemail, and the texts automatically bounce back, methodically stamped with the insulting ‘not delivered’ he just doesn’t want to see anymore. If they were just at the beginning of their road trip the last time he got to talk to him, he doesn’t want to imagine how long it’s going to take them to make it back home.

Probably the whole fucking day. And where is he going to be, by the end of the day? He has no fucking idea. Frankly, he’s not very keen on finding out whether or not they throw someone in jail for that. If he has the choice, he’d rather end up back in Paris, even if it hurts.

He turns to Idriss. “And what more option do I have? If it’s not me, then it’s someone else, and they don’t know who, so that means they will get the cops involved and shit will go down!” He shakes his head. “If my parents find out I’m fucking screwed.”

They will never forgive him. Never. Worse, they will never give him a break again. They will never trust him again, they will never stop asking a thousand questions. They will never let him live again, because ‘Eliott, the last time we let you go by yourself you ended up in _jail_ ’. He doesn’t want to live that kind of shit life.

 _This year was supposed to be different._ It’s never going to be if he doesn’t find a way to get his shit together by himself.

Sofiane, who’s sitting cross-legged next to Idriss, looks rather skeptical. “So what? They’re letting you walk out free? That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

Eliott looks somewhere else, grabbing a wrinkled tee-shirt that was waiting for their next trip at the laundromat and he shoves it in his bag. “They will if I find a way to return the key they think I stole.”

Idriss and Sofiane are quiet for a second, and he knows, he just _knows_ they’re looking at each other with those big eyes they get when they think he’s being unreasonable even when he absolutely isn’t. “But you don’t have it,” Sofiane says. “So? What’s plan B?”

“I don’t have it,” Eliott concedes, hands fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. “But I know who does.”

“You’re not talking about that summer fuck of yours,” Idriss says slowly, “are you?”

“It’s not a summer fuck,” Eliott mumbles despite himself. He’s not sure it would have felt any different if a bomb had just exploded in their cabin as soon as he says the words.

“Oh my fucking God,” Sofiane exclaims. “ _Eliott_.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Idriss blurts out at the same time. “If they have anything to do with what’s going on just throw them under the bus!”

“I told you already I _can’t_ do that, this would-” His voice trails off when his eyes stumble on his phone lighting up onto his bed. _Lucas_. His heart jerks into his chest as he immediately surges onto it to pick up, bursting out of the cabin in a hurry. 

“Hey, what’s going on?”, Lucas says, voice echoing from very, very far away. “You okay?”

His throat is dry as a desert when he blurts out: “I got fired.”

“ _What_?”

“Your mom,” he presses on. He hates the way his voice is trembling, but he can’t help it — neither that, nor the way his speech rate automatically speeds up. “She knows the bottles are missing, they think I stole them.”

There’s a second of silence on the other end of the line as Lucas is probably processing, but it makes Eliott want to slam his head into the nearest tree. “What? Why?”

“I don’t have time for that! Where do you keep the winery key?”, he exclaims. “I need to return it right the fuck now because otherwise she’s going to call the cops!”

“Eliott, Eliott breathe,” Lucas says on the other end of the line, but Eliott panics even more.

“I don’t have time to breathe, I’m going to end up with a record, do you know what that is? Do you know how fucking serious this is for me?” _I almost got one ten months ago I can’t risk it again_ , he almost says. There’s blood pounding into his ears, and he has to try and calm himself as he nervously strides around a tree.

“She’s not going to call the cops,” Lucas says. “She’d never want anyone to stick their nose in the domaine’s business.”

“Well you weren’t the one sitting in front of her, to me she seemed pretty damn serious,” Eliott bites back, a tad bitter. Just thinking about sitting down in her office makes his skin prickle. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m still on a domaine in Saint-Jean-d’Angély with my dad,” he replies, like it’s giving Eliott any kind of clue. He’s this close to snapping and tell him exactly that, when Lucas adds: “I can make it home in about… I don’t know, maybe… Maybe two hours.”

He’s feeling sick. He stops in his tracks and ends up with his back resting against the tree. “It’s going to be too late,” he says, quieter, his shoulders slumping. “Lucas, I don’t have that time, I need to give the key back and get the fuck out of here, I don’t have the choice.”

“Where are you going?”, Lucas asks. It sounds like he’s genuinely asking. Like he’s _genuinely_ at loss of an answer. Like he doesn’t understand how fucking dire the situation is for him at the moment.

“I’m going to grab a TGV for Paris! What part of me getting fired did you _not_ understand?”

If he can’t get the key back this is just going to end very, very badly. _Just throw them under the bus_ , Idriss’ voice nags him, and he hates it, he _hates_ how he’s right. It’s literally the easiest way to get out of here, the easiest way to get out of trouble. But if he outs Lucas, if he betrays him like that, chances are that Lucas will not want to speak to him again. And even if he forgives him for that, there’s nothing that says he will stay here with his shitty family. He doesn’t think staying here without him would feel any better.

“Eliott,” Lucas calls out, making his attention focus back on him. “The key’s in my bedroom but I’ll find a way to get it to you, okay? When is your train?”

He racks his brain for a second. Everything looks a little blurry at the moment. “16h20 or something.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll… I’ll find a way,” Lucas says, almost to himself, like he’s weighting his options. “Hey, I’m sorry. I… I truly am. I know it’s because of me, but I’ll be there to drive you to Bordeaux, okay?”

Despite himself Eliott lets out a bitter laugh. “And how do I explain that to my friends? They are going to take me there. Please, right now if you want to do something just find a way for me to get the key,” he says, moving away from his spot. In the distance he can see Lucas’ mother leaving her office and walking out to her car, parked in front of the farmhouse. His inside twist painfully.

“I will,” Lucas promises, driving his attention back on him. “I’m on it.”

**MARDI, 15:07**

This is the longest day of his life.

Every single minute is stretching out like eternity, one more nail in the coffin he’s going to get buried in. He’s been staring at his phone, eyes barely blinking, as if it would be enough to miss something, even the slightest sign from Lucas that things are going to be okay. How long before the guys start running around to find him?

This is a fucking nightmare, and he’s not being dramatic.

Those bottles? Fucking luxury products. Go and try to look serious on literally any job application if there’s something to tell the recruiter that you’ve stolen that kind of stuff before. This isn’t some candy type of stealing. He’s looked up the prices — this isn’t pretty.

_I’m going to throw up._

“Eliott,” a voice calls out.

His eyes snap up to meet with Manon’s, and it’s like standing in Lucas’ mom’s office all over again. His stomach drops to the vicinity of his feet in the blink of an eye as he scrambles to rise up on his feet from his spot at the foot of a tree. “H-hi,” he stutters. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I know I should have brought back the key by now but-”

 _I don’t have it yet, I don’t have it and I’m fucking screwed_. This isn’t funny. What excuse is he supposed to give? How can he say that ‘someone’ else has it, someone who isn’t _him,_ without sounding like he literally gave someone a free pass to steal right from the fucking winery of a fucking _high end_ domaine?

Forget the stealing part on his record, he’s going to end up with a trafficking accusation.

It must look like he’s just about to hyperventilate because Manon steps closer. “Okay, take a deep breath, this isn’t what I’m here for. Well, yes and no,” she says, but Eliott’s eyes are still glued on her like she’s just about to crush his life and dreams with her next sentence. She holds out her hand, and Eliott sees a key dangling off one of her fingers.

 _Oh thank God_. He can’t begin to describe the feeling of relief that washes over him as he reaches for it and she drops it in his hand. “Lucas asked me to give it to you,” she says. “It seemed important.”

 _Nothing big, just my life_ , he almost says. “Thank you, thank you, really.”

It won’t make everything better but it’s still better than nothing. If Isabelle Lallemant sticks to her word, she’s not going to call the cops and it will end with this. He squeezes the key harder in his hand, so tight he feels the small indentations digging into his palm.

“It’s okay. I don’t really know what’s happening, Lucas didn’t have time to fill me in but I hope things are going to be okay? He sounded pretty on edge,” she comments.

He takes a small inhale through his nose. “Yeah well,” he mumbles awkwardly. There isn’t much he can say at this point. _I kinda hope he gives a shit considering that his boyfriend is being fired for something he did_ doesn’t quite work with the ‘not outing Lucas’ part of the plan. “I should get this key back now.”

She nods and he gives a thankful smile as he walks past her towards the boss’ office.

“Do you want me to go with you?”, she asks in the distance, and Eliott’s pace falters in surprise.

He turns back, staring at her a bit dumbfounded. “Why would you do this?”, he asks. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”

Weren’t Lucas and her supposed to be, like, on bad terms anyway? He’s pretty sure Lucas hasn’t mentioned anything about them making up, but it’s one of the thousand things he can’t ask, because _he’s not supposed to know_.

She offers a shrug in response. “I know that Lucas cares. A lot, if you know what I mean.”

Does she mean what he thinks she means? Does she know? Lucas said he was out in London. And Manon was in London too, right? So that means… That means that maybe Lucas is out to her? But she’s also relocated here now, and she’s with Charles. So that could mean anything and everything.

Maybe Lucas is out to everyone in London, except Manon?

He’s going to lose his mind. “I don’t, sorry,” he mumbles uncomfortably, looking somewhere else.

Manon nods slowly. “Right,” she says, and she gives Eliott a sympathetic smile, just before he turns back and starts striding away.

His stomach starts clenching as soon as he reaches the outbuilding, anxiety coursing through his veins when he steps closer to the office door hanging open. The key is still digging into his palm, but he’s grabbing onto it like his life depends on it. When he glances inside the office, Isabelle Lallemant is nowhere to be seen, but sadly her asshole nephew is.

It's Charles who is standing behind the desk, facing the shelving units as he’s apparently skimming through some papers, and he barely turns back to acknowledge Eliott’s presence when the latter clears his throat weakly after giving the tiniest knock.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Lallemant,” he says. He tries to compose himself like he’s not just about to throw up, but all he can think at the moment is that maybe he should have accepted Manon’s offer to tag along. “I have the key.”

Looking supremely disinterested, Charles looks back at the papers he’s holding. “She’s on an appointment right now, but you can put it on the desk.”

Eliott swallows thickly and with a small nod to himself, he takes a step closer, then a second, then a third, until he can reach the work table and carefully put the key there. Charles hasn’t budged, like he really can’t be bothered to care, and Eliott backs away to the door. “You aren’t… Are we… Are we in the clear? With the cops?”

 _Please, please, please_.

Charles glances to him. “Yes, apparently,” he says slowly. “Be grateful she handled it because if it was me you wouldn’t have had that chance.” He takes a step to the side and drops the papers on the desk, not even bothering to look up as he adds: “Now I’d very much appreciate if you could leave this place without stirring any more drama. The paperwork will be sent to you by the Poste office in the next few days.”

Eliott nods, with a small ‘right’ that he’s not sure anyone but himself could have heard. His heart is still beating fast in his chest as he motions to leave. It’s good. It’s fine. This is just a bump. _Just a bump_. As long as there are no long-lasting consequences, it’s just-

“You probably think that no one would ever find out,” Charles’ voice echoes just as he’s about to cross the threshold; it makes a chill run up his back, and he doesn’t seem to have any more control left on his body when his head snaps back. Lucas’ cousin is staring at him from behind the desk, his eyes dark and unwavering as they seem to pierce Eliott’s skin. “But now playtime’s over and it’s time for things to go back to normal. We’re not that kind of family where stuff like this happens.”

He can’t explain it.

He just can’t.

It must be because of Manon, because of what she just told him before. That’s literally the only reason why he would think this. But for a terrifying second-

For a terrifying second it feels like he knows. Like he can see right through him. It feels like he knows about Lucas, like he knows about them, like this is Idriss and Sofiane confronting him all over again, but with much, much bigger stakes. “W-what are you talking about?”, he croaks out.

Charles looks him dead in the eye. “The wine, of course,” he huffs, but there isn’t a single trace of amusement in his voice, in his tone, in his face, as he adds: “What else would I be talking about?”

He knows, Eliott thinks, his knees getting weak.

He fucking knows.

**MARDI, 16:59**

**MARDI, 20:22**

Knocking at his own door is the last thing he needed to complete the fucking picture of easily one of the most fucked up days of his entire life. He’s got a history of inadvertently misplacing his keys, so he had to leave them behind when he left for Bordeaux — and now here he is, standing by the door, waiting for his parents to move. He really doesn’t have the patience for this, but it’s not like he has a choice.

The train ride back to Paris was by far the loneliest he’s ever felt, he’s pretty sure of that, and it was made even worse by the forty-five-minute drive to Bordeaux with Idriss, Sofiane, and Emma who had insisted to tag along. No one was really talking, which made the atmosphere about as funky as the room of a patient on life support, and Eliott spent most of his time trying to figure out an angle where his parents wouldn’t smell trouble as soon as he’d be back in Paris.

“We’re gonna be back in a week anyway,” Sofiane had pointed out, probably trying to cheer up the mood as Eliott gathered his stuff to leave the car when they reached the parking lot of the train station. It wasn’t comforting him in any way but he had accepted it with a stiffy smile, said goodbye to Emma, and dragged himself inside.

After that it had been three hours of depressing loneliness, and the mess that has been today kept replaying over and over again in his mind. He kept seeing Lucas’ mother behind her desk, and the boys asking him a hundred questions, and Lucas not picking up, and Charles and Manon and Lucas and Emma.

Lucas, mostly. Lucas.

Lucas who apparently found back his signal over an hour ago, if his texts getting delivered are anything to go by, and who still hasn’t replied — or called. It digs a little deeper in Eliott’s heart with every passing minute. He knew this would be hard, he knew it the moment the moment he kissed Lucas in the Jeep on the first week. He knew it when they fooled around in the pool, he knew it the moment Lucas asked him to come over. Worse, he also knew it the moment he asked Lucas out.

But despite all of this, he hadn’t expected it to be hard in that regard.

He had never expected that he wouldn’t get to say goodbye.

There’s a part of him he can’t deny that kept thinking all along that this wouldn’t end like this — with just another week of them, then that they’d give each other a pat on the back and leave it at that. It’s like there’s a difference he can’t quite explain, between knowing that what they shared on the domaine was bound not to last, and the knowledge that this was just… greater than that.

_What a fucking joke._

There’s a faint rustle on the other side of the front door, quiet footsteps, and then the lock turning.

“Eliott?”, his mom says, her voice softly rising with a thousand questions as soon as she sees him. Her eyes narrow, door opening wider to make way for him. “What- Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks flatly, brushing past her to get inside. He should plaster a smile on his face, but it’s hard. His travel bag drops heavily to the floor with a thud.

Behind him his mom closes the door. “Well, sure, we are, but I thought you weren’t coming back for another week.” _We fought over this, remember?_ She doesn’t say it but it’s implied.

He doesn’t know what to say. Two days ago he didn’t expect to be back home either.

“Apparently it wasn’t legal,” Eliott mumbles evasively, busying himself with his jacket. He takes it off and hangs it on the rack in the entrance. “Too many work hours or something.”

“Hey, look who’s here,” his dad greets him from the couch, an arm resting on the backrest from the living room. He shuffles over there, and Eliott hears the familiar sound of the tv remote dropped on a pile of magazines spread out on the coffee table, just before his dad stands up to join them. “You should have told us you were on the road.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he mutters. At least this one is only half a lie, it’s simply that he didn’t _just_ leave out the way back from the semi-daily updates he gave them.

There’s a weird round of brief hugs and pats in the back, tense on his part, and all of a sudden it feels like the entrance has become overcrowded — he just can’t deal with human beings at the moment, even less with human beings asking question.

“Are you okay?”, his mom asks again, trying to make eye contact with him. Her face is crumpled into a worried frown and when she reaches out to touch his shoulder he tries not to step away. “Did you get anything to eat on the road? We have some leftovers-”

“No, I’m good,” he says, pulling away, and this time it sounds a little bit more snippy.

“Are you sure?,” she insists. “You look really tired, you aren’t sick, are you?”

His dad gives her a look, just as he leans down to pick up his travel bag. “Nat, he just got out of a six-hour drive, of course he’s tired.”

He doesn’t bother replying. He just walks into the apartment, striding through the living room, familiar smells and lights and objects all blurring together as he waltzes into his bedroom. He shoves his travel bag away in a corner and slams the door shut, heart heavy and head spinning ever so slightly when he drops himself onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow.

Not even undressing, not even kicking off his shoes, not even checking his phone — it’s not like it fucking matters anyway.

**VENDREDI, 09:41**

****

**VENDREDI, 17:08**

If you want to know what kind of plans Eliott might have possibly had for the day, he could tell you right away that none of these ever included stumbling face-to-face with Imane Bakhellal. His pace falters as he walks out of the elevator to find her standing in the hall by their front door.

“Hey,” he says, voice coming out a little husky. In his defense, he crept out of his bedroom after his parents left earlier this afternoon, so the most conversation he’s made today was when he said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to the cashier, when he went to buy some tobacco down the street.

Imane looks the way she always does: like she’s just looking for the right angle to call you out on your bullshit. He might have known her for a few years now, it never fails — apparently today is no exception.

“When Idriss says he’s ready to _pay me_ to go check on you, that’s when I know things are bad,” she deadpans, and she crosses her arms on her chest pointedly. She looks him dead in the eye, unwavering, while behind him the door of the elevator is rolling closed. “Do you mind explaining to me why the hell you’re here and not busy picking grapes or whatever that was you were doing with my brother and Sofiane?”

He twists his mouth in discomfort, toying nervously with his key chain for a moment. It’s easier when, like his parents, the person you’re trying to lie to doesn’t know he’s the only one out of the three to be back in Paris. As it is, he frankly doubts that Imane of all people would fall for the lame excuse he waved to get his parents off his back the other day.

“I got home early,” he says, awkwardly walking to unlock the front door.

Imane doesn’t even budge, and he’s forced to slip in the tiny space between her and the wall to reach the lock — worse, she gives him a look, of the worst judgmental kind. “Hmm. Yeah. No. That’s not going to cut it.”

He lets out a sigh, cracking the door open as the keys jingle loudly in the silent hall. “Look, I don’t know what Idriss told you but I’m doing okay. I’m a couple of texts late but it wasn’t a reason to get you on my case.” He opens the door wider, begrudgingly perhaps, for her to get in.

It’s not so much because he wants this conversation to keep up, it’s mostly because they have the most annoying neighbors and he’d rather not continue talking about this in the middle of the hall where everybody can hear everything. He’s been trying to fly off the radars since Tuesday night, successfully enough for his parents to leave him the fuck alone, it’s not to have the lady next door his mother doesn’t even like blowing off his cover tomorrow morning by the mailboxes.

Imane brushes past him to get inside, and Eliott follows behind, shutting the door closed. “He told me you got fired for something you didn’t do.”

And there it is. “He’s exaggerating,” he says stubbornly, as he takes off his jacket. The Parisian pre-fall has been a lot less kind than the southern weather, which is only adding to his already persistent feeling that he left Bordeaux months ago. He walks into the kitchen with Imane on his tail. “Do you want something to drink?”

It might be dumb, but as it is he’d take literally anything to get the focus on something else than his pitiful attempt at keeping a job for three weeks straight. Not to mention that the very idea of the domaine, of thinking about how things went down-

It’s giving him nausea.

“I want you to tell me what this was all about,” Imane says, just as stubborn.

Eliott’s grip tightens on the handle of the fridge. “I fell in love with a guy who won’t talk to me anymore and now it’s like trying to talk to a fucking wall,” he blurts out, heart thumping in his chest.

Imane blinks, and for a moment it feels like time has frozen.

 _I want you to tell me what this was all about_.

Well this is it. This is what it was all about. The good and the bad. And now it’s like a huge wave crashing over him, and all he’s left to think is Lucas, Lucas, _Lucas._ It’s all too much. He doesn’t want to think about it right now. He’s been doing that for days and nights now, every time he closes his eyes he thinks about Lucas, and the crushing feeling of abandonment he’s been forced to deal with — and the worst part is, it was already there before he even left the domaine.

Because Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to help him, he wasn’t there to comfort him, and now, _now,_ it fucking hurts even more.

“Okay,” Imane says slowly. She leans back against the kitchen elements. “Idriss left out that part, I see.”

“He left it out because he doesn’t know,” he mumbles, his hand dropping, and he feels awkward, with his arms hanging and his too full brain. “The guy, he’s… He’s not out. And Idriss and Sof don’t know because I couldn’t tell them, so I had to sneak out all the time to see him and then they got pissed at me.”

She studies him for a second. “What does it have to do with you getting fired?”

He fiddles with his hoodie sleeve, looking away. “He’s the one who took some crazy-ass expensive bottles out of the winery, and I got blamed for it.” He hates how that sounds. He’s never said it out loud, and even in his own mind he’s been trying to avoid wording it that way, because it doesn’t really reflect what happened. Put it like that, it just sounds like he got taken advantage of. Like there was never anything between them that Lucas trying to have a good time.

“And you didn’t tell the people who fired you it wasn’t you?” Imane quirks a brow, and when he shakes his head, she heaves a sigh, folding back her arms on her chest. “Look I don’t mean to tell you what to do but it’s the sort of situation where it’s every man for himself, Eliott. If that guy stole those bottles he might do it somewhere else and get other people in trouble.”

“It’s not…” He bites onto his bottom lip, then swallows a little. “He didn’t steal them. They belong to his family. He’s the son of the owner of the domaine.” He looks up at Imane. “Just, don’t tell the guys please.”

She snorts. “Look, Idriss and I have reached a point in our relationship where I’m very happy that he doesn’t tell me every single thing he does, and vice versa. I won’t say a thing.” It doesn’t make him feel better, not in the least, but he mumbles a small ‘thank you’ anyway. Imane seems to be processing all the info dumping. “So then what? He just ghosted you?”

 _No,_ he wants to reply, _it hasn’t even been a week._

But deep down he knows better.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I think so.”

There’s a silence that settles over the kitchen, as Imane nods quietly with a hum.

“Not worth asking if you’re doing okay then?”

He smiles dryly. “Not really, no.” He presses his lips together, reaching for the bottom one to distractedly pull at it. “Look, my parents don’t know about the… about the getting fired part, and they should be back any minute now.”

“Alright.” Imane looks him up and down, but she takes herself away from the kitchen counter. She motions to leave the kitchen and he follows her quietly to the entrance.

“Thanks for checking up,” he says, just as she pulls the door open. “I don’t… I didn’t mean for anything to happen the way it did. Neither that or what happened with the guys.”

It’s quite an understatement at this point. He doesn’t know how many times he’s apologized, and how long he will continue doing it. Imane huffs and shakes her head, turning back when she steps out in the doorway. “I’ll tell them to cut you some slack, but you better expect them to drop by at any possible opportunity as soon as things are getting better.”

“Yeah.” He tries to smile, but he feels empty.

So, that’s it. That’s what it is. The post Lucas world. That place where people end up in when they breakup, and when they’re supposed to forget about that one person who came crashing their world. But it’s weird to get over something you feel like you never really had in the first place — and it’s not even about the sneaking around part that he feels bitter, no. What the ugly part of him is mad about, it’s that sometimes it felt like Lucas wasn’t really there with him.

Once the door closes behind Imane, he goes straight to his bedroom, falling flat on the bed as his eyes wind up on the ceiling. There’s his movie script hanging open on his desk, where he left it two days ago when he tried to busy himself — but even that, it’s hard to look at it now. It’s like it reeks of this past summer. The mere thought of having to read the words he so careful put in his characters’ mouth make him want to throw it altogether.

_I know I’ve only met you, but I feel like I’ve been looking out for you my whole life._

Fucking joke. He’s just a fucking, fucking joke.

Stupid Eliott, with his too fucking dumb dreams about romance and epic love stories, he thinks bitterly, throwing an arm over his face and willing the world to disappear.

**SAMEDI, 16:27**

“You’ve been very quiet since you came back.”

Eliott doesn’t bother looking up as he keeps handing the stuff his mom just brought home from the supermarket as she stores them in the fridge. It’s not so much because he wanted to come and help than because his mom forced him to come out of his bedroom because she had ‘forgotten her keys’ — and after that it only went downhill because ‘Eliott, since you’re here, you can stay to help’. He knew right off the bat that it was just an ambush for her to talk but it’s not like he has a way out of this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says blankly as he hands her an orange juice bottle above the open door of the fridge.

His mom picks up the bottle. “You know what I’m talking about,” she contradicts pointedly. It’s in moments like these that Eliott regrets not having a sibling. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, just every once in a while, he wishes he could get someone to share the burden of his parents’ undivided attention. Someone to throw under the bus, if you will. “You’re never leaving your bedroom, you’re sulking whenever we try to talk with you and all you’ve so far is going out to buy cigarettes. Even for you that’s a bit much.”

He piles up two or three cans of beans and peas that were hanging at the bottom of the grocery bag, and starts folding it. “I thought you wanted me back in time for school,” he retorts. “Well I’m here.”

He drops the folded bag on the kitchen table and motions to pick his phone back up when his entire body seems to freeze for a second. It’s is on silent mode, but Lucas’ Caller ID is calling. For a second, he’s too paralyzed to move, his mom’s voice drowning out in the background.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

What should he do?

He doesn’t want to pick up but he wants to know what this is about. He watches and watches, contradicting thoughts swirling around in his brain, until his finger sweeps the screen to pick up, probably on the last ring for all he knows.

“Eliott,” his mother calls out, but he pointedly presses his phone to his ear as he exits the kitchen, striding out with his heart beating. 

There’s a one second silence that seems to stretch for an eternity until he hears Lucas’ voice. “Hey,” he simply says, and since he’s not responding anything, there’s a hesitant: “Eliott?”

Eliott takes a small, quiet inhale, just as he bursts into his bedroom, door slowly shutting itself behind him. “What do you want?”

“To apologize,” Lucas replies. For a moment he seems to search his words. “I read your texts and I… Listen, I wanted to reply, I really did, but I needed to sort some things out before, and then it just wouldn’t stop.”

 _Too busy to send a text,_ Eliott almost snorts.

“You know you’re not the only one who’s having a shit time dealing with their feelings right?” he says, trying to sound as brutal as the whole situation is making him feel. “The least you could do when someone tells you that they have feelings for you, it’s not to leave it on read.” Lucas tries to say something, but Eliott doesn’t let him. “You know what, I tried to be everything you needed me to be, I fucking did. I was discreet, I literally fought myself not to ask for more, not to push you, not to twist my brain over it, and that’s-”

“Just listen to me!”, Lucas hisses, and Eliott’s mouth opens and closes, cheeks flaring up under the invisible blow. “I want to talk to you, I want… Please, I need to see you right now. I know I messed up and I know you have the right not to want to see me but I… I really fucking miss you.”

“Well that’s fucking too bad right,” he drawls bitterly, “because Paris and Saint A aren’t exactly in the same area last I checked.”

“I’m not in Saint A.”

And frankly? Eliott fucking hates it. He hates the way the world seems to come to a full stop. He hated the way his stomach drops, the way his heartbeat rises up. He hates the way his hands get warm and sweaty, and the way his grip tightens around his phone for it not to slip to the floor.

“Where are you?”, he asks after a second.

“I’m downstairs.”

In one second, one tiny second, it’s like the entire week has evaporated. The good and the bad. He’s brought back to that time where the prospect of catching sight of Lucas, even for a cigarette and a quick kiss, was enough to brighten his day. Everything in himself is screaming not to do it, to have some self-respect, to stand his ground, but he can’t forget about Lucas and move on if he doesn’t get closure. And that phonecall — well that phonecall isn’t nearly enough, right?

It's better than nothing, better than silence radio, but it’s not enough.

_False excuse, false excuse, false excuse._

It doesn’t really matter to be fair. He can’t feel worse than he’s already felt these past few days, when he was hopelessly waiting for a sign from him. It can’t possibly get worse than this.

“I’m at the foot of your building,” Lucas adds helpfully, which is always good because Eliott doesn’t have to be terrified about mistaking what he wants with the harsh, cold reality. “And I’m sorry if it’s too much at the moment but I really just need to apolog-”

“Okay, I’m coming, give me two seconds,” he says hurriedly before ending the call.

It doesn’t even sink that he just hung up on Lucas mid-sentence, not until he bursts into the entrance of the apartment — probably under his mother’s eyes. Lucas is in Paris. Lucas is in _Paris_. Holy fucking shit. He dashes outside and into the staircase, running past the elevator without even a second thought. Running down the four floors makes him lightheaded. It’s like he’s floating, a bit of an out-of-body experience in the weirdest fashion, and when he sees him through the front door of the lobby — it downs on Eliott.

Lucas is standing outside, what looks like a travel bag at his feet, and it’s not like he genuinely thought at any point that Lucas would travel back and forth just for them to have a break up chat over a drink, but seeing the _bag_ — well it makes it more real.

Lucas is in Paris. He’s there.

And Eliott feels more confused than ever about his own feelings. He takes advantage of the fact that Lucas seems to be looking somewhere else to straighten up his shirt, and nervously tries to look even remotely decent and not just… not just plain desperate — because ultimately, whatever happens, it still stinks of desperation.

He swallows thickly and pulls the door open, Lucas’ deep blue eyes darting onto him. “Hey,” Eliott says.

Lucas gives a small smile. “Hey.” His voice sounds kind of quiet, and it makes Eliott’s stomach churn.

They stay like that for a handful of seconds, standing in front of each other, about two meters apart, and Eliott’s grip tightens on the door as he keeps it open but makes no motion for Lucas to enter. This is fucking ridiculous. He needs to get a grip. Eventually he steps to the side, still holding out the door. Lucas’ eyes trail away as he leans down to pick up his bag, and when he walks past Eliott, his heart clenches brutally.

The door shutting itself behind Eliott sounds awfully loud in the silent lobby, and the fact that Lucas isn’t looking him in the eye anymore makes it even worse — instead, he busies himself with the shoulder strap of his travel bag, grip tightening and relaxing a bunch of times. He’s never seen him like that. Never. That either, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Let’s take the elevator,” Eliott says, voice a bit quiet. He goes to walk past Lucas, but Lucas’ hand grabs his arm, not in a way that hurts, but definitely in a way that startles him. His eyes dart onto him, meeting Lucas’, and something clicks.

It doesn’t have anything to do with _them_. It doesn’t have anything to do with Eliott’s feelings for him. But when he looks into Lucas’ eyes, he sees something he doesn’t like — he sees distress, and it tugs at his heartstrings in a whole different way.

Something happened.

He knows. He just knows.

There’s a reason Lucas is here, there’s a reason he begged him to let him explain himself, there’s a reason they’re both standing in this lobby, and Eliott isn’t sure, all of a sudden, that this is solely about him anymore. Lucas’ grip loosens onto Eliott’s arm, until his hand slips away and his gaze drops.

“Hey,” Eliott hears himself whisper. On their own accord, his arms reach out and his hands wrap themselves around Lucas’ shoulders to pull him in. “It’s okay.”

Lucas leans into the touch, resting his head onto his shoulder, and it should hurt, the way their bodies are just fitting together, it _does_ hurt, but suddenly it’s another type of pain, another type of pang in his chest. Lucas doesn’t reply anything, burrowing his face into Eliott’s shoulder instead.

It’s not long before Eliott feels something dampening the fabric of his shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading 😘✌🏻 you can always find me @demaury on tumblr


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